


The Once and Future King

by Bettycrocker



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Canon Timeline, Dragons, Harm to Animals, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jon Snow Raises Dragons, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon Snow-centric, Jon has a dragon, Minor Character Death, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, R Plus L Equals J, Skinchanging, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Verbal Abuse, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 25
Words: 99,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bettycrocker/pseuds/Bettycrocker
Summary: When Brynden Rivers ("Bloodraven") promises to do everything in his power to ensure Jon Snow is able to thrive before the Night King Comes, he sets  events in motion which place the pair in the midst of love, death, war, and betrayal. With his peculiar life-cycle, he will ensure the once promised prince can be the future king.(i.e. Brynden is Merlin and Jon is Arthur)





	1. Prologue: the Egg in the Stone

To speak of the future, most people would speak in terms relative to their own. “I’m going to do this” or “I’m going to do that” or “I’m going to find any Frey I can find, slit their throats, and feed them to more Freys”. This was not true of Brynden Rivers. At least, not any more. 

He had lived the future. He had felt the rain, which would blot out the sun tomorrow, upon his cheeks. He knew the words he spoke today, would have repercussions upon the lives of persons generations from now. Not in the vague sense of “well I’m important, so my words and actions should consequently also be important”, but in the tangible, quantitative sense which deemed that once he spoke to so-and-so, they would do this, which would do this, which would do that, etc. There is no guesswork involved. 

Brynden Rivers had the unfortunate condition of living his life akin to a pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth. Time was not continuous for him. In fact, if he were to be pressed for an answer upon what constituted the beginning and end of time, he would respond with “ the birth of Myself and the death of the King, naturally.”

In fact, Brynden had lived this life for so long, that he could no longer say which way was forward, and which was backwards. The indifference and confusion he developed as the centuries wore by had increased drastically to the point whereby he stepped away from centre stage - perhaps stage left in most history books. What did it matter what he did, when time would naturally swing back the opposite way? He knew the future for little Egg, he knew the demise of Aerys, he knew the suffering of Daenerys, and the struggles the secret King endured, but the circular nature of time had caused his sense of direction to fade. What does it matter what he does on his “way back” (as he called reliving his life to his birth), if he was only going to turn around and find everything he did, simply did not matter?It was as if he was sweeping the floors, only to turn around to find several children had been following him with muddy shoes. Sweeping it again only resulted in the same mess. He was doomed to being the house maid forever.

This time, as he made his way back, he had been caught off guard by an unusual request. 

“Help him,” Daenerys had pleaded, grasping his arm with fingers slick with blood. “If what I hear is true, only you know how to stop all this.”

Her hands could not find a stronghold, but her eyes were fierce, her voice aflame with emotion. “Promise me,” She choked.

The King lay in her lap, eyes gazing skywards, mouth slack. The blood had already drained from his face giving him the appearance of a Wight, which he had always and forever been fighting against. 

It was not that he had never tried to help before, but his plans had always involved Brandon Stark, the Nights’ Watch, and trying to keep the Targaryens in power. 

Perhaps it was her desperation, or the sombre scene of the last Targaryens facing the reality of their demise, but Brynden decided then to do things differently. Doing everything the same, or similar to the point that his alternative actions mattered little in the long run, meant that he knew what was going to occur in the future. Changing things meant uncertainty. He knew as a certainty that defending house Targaryen would send him to the Wall, where he would be recruited to delve ever deeper into the forest to become the Three Eyed Raven. This was good, he thought, since fiddling too much might mean an early demise of his house. However, the listless stare and tearful eyes of his last remaining family finally kicked something into action within. 

“Do not weep child,” Brynden consoled, as much as his rasping voice could do. “The Old Gods and the New have determined that I shall not rest until I find an end to this inevitability. I had thought previously that hiding in the shadows would be the only course of action I could take. It will not be so this time.”

“And he,” Daenerys said, pausing to gasp for breath. “He must live. He must _ flourish _. I will be okay, I will be…” she shot her eyes around, trying to find what to say. 

“You are Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons. You will _ always _ be right in the world. But I will do what I can to ensure his survival, to let him _ flourish _, if you want. He will be ready for when the Darkness gathers and the Long Night comes. I will do everything in my power to ensure he will be a King fit to follow. Even if it means a great cost to myself.”

“Thank-”

“Your thanks is not needed. It is something I should have done long ago, but was too afraid of doing. I wonder how I could keep making the same mistakes and expect different results.”

“Then, as your Queen, I bid you go. Do your duty for your King.”

“As you wish, my Queen.”


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Childhood angst and Brynden reveals himself to Jon for the first and last time, depending on one's perspective.

Jon had, more often than not, days of melancholia than of joy. It was not that he sulked about the castle of Winterfell, never managing more than a grimace of happiness. No. In fact, he had rather happy moments playing in the training yard with his half-brother Robb, or playing childish games with his half-sister, Arya. The overarching emotion though, was one of doom. Jon believed that this feeling was caused by the fact that he was a bastard, and was therefore stuck in this position of having the privilege to know what awaits for nobility, without ever having the chance to possess it for himself. That, and the icy glare of Lady Catelyn Stark.

Jon was to turn nine tomorrow. He was still a boy, but was becoming old enough to want to become an adult with full eagerness. As an adult, of course, he could leave his household and make a name of his own, not having to besmirch his father’s reputation anymore. Guilt riddled him like mites on a fallen tree. And it was in a moment of frustration that Jon made his way into the woods beyond Wintertown to take out his anger and sadness.

Jon had outsmarted Robb on this last history exam. He hadn’t meant to do any harm, but his achievement had put Lady Stark into a rather sour mood. He had overheard her remarks to Maester Luwin asking if Jon could have cheated. “This is the fifth time he has bettered Robb. Perhaps he should be taken out of your tutelage so that-”

“I will do as Lord Stark commands, my Lady, and Lord Stark commands me to teach Jon just as I would Robb. However,” he paused chewing over her words. “If he should take interest in not attending to his studies, I suppose I wouldn’t protest too much.”

Jon hit the tree ever harder as their words rang through his head. Why was he even studying anyways? It’s not like it would matter since he could never be a Stark - never need the knowledge to run a castle and rule over lands.

His wooden sword snapped in two with a _ thwack _. It went twirling out to his right and into the underbrush. He groaned, knowing that he would have to explain how the sword broke in two to the Master-at arms, Rodrick Cassel.

“Dammit,” he muttered. Jon had recently taken to swearing under his breath, trying to imitate the men around him in Winterfell. He also found it relieved some stress when he said them. 

“Is that anyway for a young man to speak?” asked a raspy, thin voice from a distance.

Jon looked about him, trying to find the source of the voice. Finding himself quite alone, he went back to looking for the wooden sword blade, convincing himself the voice had been in his head. 

“Is this the first time we have met?” The same voice asked.

“Who’s there?” Jon called out. Unsure of what to do. It was still bright and sunny in the clearing where he stood, but the forest canopy blocked out the light beyond him, and he began to imagine a number of different persons lurking in the din. “Speak plainly to me in full view, and I will not tell my father of your trespassing.” Jon tried to muster as much authority in his voice as he could, but that was a tall order for any near-nine-year-old, and he sounded all the more a child. 

“That will be a problem, child, for I am not here.”

“Do not tease me, I am the son of Lord Stark.” Jon threatened again. He hoped his postering would be enough to scare this person away.

“Yes, the son of Winterfell with no name. How curious you would lie to me.”

“I didn’t lie. I told the truth. That’s the honourable thing to do” He didn’t know why, but he wanted to justify himself to this man, even if it made no sense. Someone should know that he was only ever trying to do the honourable thing. Like his father. He thought doing well in his studies would make his father proud, but it only cause Lady Stark to despise him more.

“Honourable, yes, but stupid.”

“How dare you-”

“Do not interrupt me, boy!” The raspy voice rang through the air and the winds picked up and the leaves and grass rustled in the breeze. “Heed this warning: not all who strive for honour are rewarded. Patients and knowledge are far more valuable and powerful.”

“Who are you?!” Jon yelled, angry at being belittled. It seems he would never escape being berated by others.

“Who are you?” The voice asked back. 

Just as Jon made to reply, he felt a cold snap within his head, like when one would eat too much snow. It was uncomfortable and jarring. One moment he was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, the next he was a bird of prey, eyeing the landscape with a piercing gaze.

The hawk spotted deer grazing in the high fields next to the grand stone nest where the humans lived. The hawk was briefly remorseful for the nest him and his mate had built the previous year, which was destroyed by those humans not long after his mate had laid her eggs, but just as quickly turned its attention back to hunting.

It scanned the landscape, knowing that rabbits and hares were threaded through the knolls. It’s stomach was empty from days of no success. It needed a kill, and soon, if it was to live to the next mating season.

_ There! _

A rabbit was grazing on grass, oblivious to the danger it was in.

The hawk dove down.

Jon was pulled from the hawk with another cold snap. This time he drifted into a rabbit.

_ Run. Hide. Run. Hide. _ The rabbit thought in a panic. A creature of death had swooped down from the skies and closed its talons upon the back of its sister as they ate a mid day meal.

_ Death. Death comes for us _ , the rabbit squeaked as it bounced towards its home. The rabbit bounced down towards their mother who was watching after his sister’s kit. _ Death. Death. Sister. Death. _

There was a sombre if not panicked atmosphere in the den after the rabbit announced what happened.The survival of the younglings unknown at this time.

Another cold snap occurred, and Jon was back in the hawk.

It plucked and pulled at the tendons of the rabbit, blood spewing onto the grass where it died. Every so often the hawk scanned its surroundings before gulping back another morsel of meat. The hawk ate until it was full, leaving a large amount of meat lying upon the ground. If he was lucky, he might come back here tomorrow and find it still available to eat. If not, well, he would have to hunt again. 

The hawk took flight, its wings emboldened by the energy its meal provided it. The hawk was fulfilled, satisfied with its conquest.

Jon felt another snap, and he was back in his own body. He cried out, as if in pain, but he wasn’t really. He took a deep, full breath as he shrunk to the ground wiggling his fingers and toes almost to remind himself how they worked. He landed on his rear, but sat forward, unnerved by what had occurred.

“Was th-that real? What did y-you do?” Jon stammered. _ Was it all a dream? _

“That was skinchanging, child. You have this inert ability which I merely guided you through.”

“N-no,” Jon defended. “That’s for Wildlings and m-monsters. I’m n-neither.” 

“So you say.” There was an eerie silence which followed his statement. _ A bastard doesn’t have to be a monster! _ Jon thought despairingly.

“Tell me,” the voice said finally breaking the silence. “Why should the hawk kill the rabbit? The hawk brought such misery to the rabbits simply to satisfy its hunger. Would it not be more honourable to object to doing this?”

“Th-the hawk needs to eat.” Jon muttered, still confused by his circumstances.

“Yet this is at the expense of the rabbit.”

Jon remained silent, unsure about what he was trying to say.

“No response? Very well, I will end our conversation today by saying that you must overcome this crippling desire to do the right thing to please others. Sometimes the right thing is catastrophic for others, killing a young rabbit so that you can satiate your hunger, for instance. And sometimes it’s a simple bump in the road: outperforming others in their studies, perhaps.” Jon let out a breath he had been holding in. _ He knows about all this? "_Whatever the case,” he continued. “Be certain that you can live with your choices. You might die if you don’t eat a necessary meal, or you may lose out on necessary knowledge if you let the voices of others dictate your life.”

“Why do you care?” Jon retorted, he wanted to cry in frustration, but held his emotions in.

“Because I made a promise.”

The forest and fields went silent as the wind died. Jon was left sitting with a wooden hilt in his hand wondering about his sanity. He got up and absentmindedly walked back towards Winterfell and into his room. He sat on his bed and stared at the fireplace where the coals of last nights fire remained.

_ Skinchanging? I’m no skinchanger! I can’t be. This couldn’t have happened. Perhaps the sword hit my head and I dreamt this up as I lay unconscious. _

“Jon!” Robb yelled as he came barging into his room. “Supper is being served! They’re serving the rabbit the huntsmen caught today!”

Jon’s stomach lurched as he sat down for his meal. He had never been opposed to eating rabbit until this very night. Now the chunks of meat upon his plate with the stewed leeks and salted carrots made him think of the dream he had, and how terrified he was of the hawk.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Jon?” Robb questioned him, mouth full of rabbit and carrots. 

Jon’s stomach growled as if in response, and Jon remembered the satisfaction of the hawk as it ate the rabbit’s flesh, and his mouth watered.

“Yes, sorry, I was thinking.” he said before stuffing himself on rabbit.

“You don’t have to tell me that! Maybe if you do less thinking, I would be able to beat you one day.”

Jon grinned at that. “I think I’d have to be hit in the head with a rock for you to smarter than me,” he jested, earning an astonished face from his half-brother. “Besides I think if you studied harder rather than playing in the crypts or godswood you might close the gap between us a little.”

This earned him a limp leek to his face, and a disgruntled Lord Stark put an end to their rambunctiousness. 

“I’m sorry I said that,” Jon said to Robb as they were sent to their rooms without further food.

“It’s okay, I guess you’re right, my Lady mother says as much.” Jon grimaced at that. 

As Jon lay on his bed that night, he made the decision that he would continue studying, even harder, maybe. He liked knowing things anyways, and he liked at least knowing more than Robb, even if he knew he shouldn’t if he wanted to be a good brother. 

Jon didn’t know if that voice had been real, but he knew he didn’t want to sacrifice his studies. At least, he wouldn’t sacrifice this for the sake of staying away from Lady Stark’s gaze.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds himself on an unexpected adventure with the added benefit of homework.

“As I’ve always said,” Maester Luwin chided Jon. “The best remedy for being sad, is to learn something new.” Jon didn’t want to be so depressed. He had woken this morning with thoughts of adventure through the hills and forests surrounding Winterfell. His father had told him and Robb that they would go hunting this after-noon several days ago. Jon had looked forward to finally showing off his skill with the bow. He was not as good as Theon (and Theon would never let him forget that) but he thought he had improved greatly in the last several months.

It was only this morning during break-fast that his Lord father had told him he would not be joining them in their hunt.

“Don’t worry, Jon,” his father placated. “There will be more hunts in the future you can go on.”

Jon didn’t see why he couldn’t go this time. His father never gave him a reason. It was simply said and done, and now Jon was alone with Lady Stark, the girls, and the babe. He was almost ten in two months time, and wanted to be able to go along with his father on trips like this, especially since Robb was old enough to. But, he supposed Lady Stark might have said something to his father to keep him back. Perhaps she didn’t want him to steal the kill from Robb? Jon thought it unlikely either of them would have been able to shoot down venison.

“I’ll find something to read, then,” Jon listlessly responded to the Maester. 

“Good, good,” Luwin chirped. “You know, you would make a good student at the citadel if you ever wanted to join. They accept anyone willing to learn.”

Jon wrinkled his nose at the suggestion, but replied with a “thank you, Maester. I’ll think on it.”

He made his way up to the library which housed the most books Jon had ever thought was possible to write. Not only books, but scrolls and slips of parchment from past correspondence as well. Jon didn’t want to become a Maester, but he wanted to be useful for Robb. Reading about history sometimes came in handy, especially in local disputes among nobility or even peasants. Maybe if he lost himself in the past, he could forget about the present.

Jon ran his fingers over the bindings of books he walked past. He stopped at  _ The Fire to Consume Dragons: the Life and Death of Aegon V _ . He hadn’t read this one yet, and the title was quite intriguing. It was by a Maester Gawinheart.

_ To speak of Aegon V _ , it read,  _ is to speak of knightly heroes, sorcerers and all consuming madness. _ This introduction made it sound more like a story than a retelling of history. Jon quite enjoyed more adventurous authors, and sat down upon a bench in the middle of the room.

_ The sorcerer Bloodraven, or Bryden Rivers, bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy, was a crucial part of bringing Aegon V into power. He was also the first thing to go of the old regime, such was his brutal act upon the last Blackfyre. _

Jon spent the next couple hours reading by the sunlight streaming through the windows. He was so absorbed in his reading, that he barely noticed the change in light until he looked up after hearing a noise.

“Is someone there?” he asked. “Arya? Luwin?”

When no answer came, he decided to mark his place by leaving a piece of loose paper where he stopped and placed the book back upon the shelf where he found it. When he turned to leave, he heard the noise again. It was a voice, he was sure. Raspy and distant, just like…

Jon’s heart began to race, and his fingers became clammy. Last time had just been a dream. He hadn’t actually spoken to a disembodied voice, it was all in his head.

“Come to the forest.” It called. “Come to the forest.”

_ No. No. No. _ Jon thought, he wouldn’t listen to this voice. It didn’t exist. 

_ It could be the Old Gods speaking to me _ , Jon reasoned. He quickly threw out that thought. Never had he heard of the Old Gods speaking so directly to humans.

_ I should go to my room, and shut my door _ . He then decided. But as he made his ascent up the stairs, the voice became more insistent, but just as distant. It was a noise so faint it might have blended in with the castle’s goings on, yet it somehow rose above that din. “Come to the forest. Come to the forest. Come to the forest.” It was driving him insane.

“Fine!” He yelled, disturbing a chambermaid who happened to be passing by. Jon hung his head as he shot by her, leaving the halls of Winterfell.

He marched through the castle to the Godswood. Perhaps he meant just any wooded area. This was closer anyhow, and the sooner the voice stopped, the better.

“I’m sorry to disturb your reading,” the voice said. “But you really must be practiced in other matters as well.”

“No,” Jon muttered. “You don’t exist, it’s all in my head.” Jon tried to plug his ears by blocking them with his hands.

“Have we not spoken before?” The voice asked.

“This is a delusion.” Jon answered.

“Boy,” the voice boomed. “Come towards the weirwood. Let me show you what is real and what is delusion.”

Jon wanted to turn away and run, but he knew whatever this was would only haunt him forever after. So, he walked, slowly, towards the heart tree, careful to spot anyone in the Godswood who might be pulling his leg or speaking to him.

When he arrived at the pool, he looked towards the weeping face of the heart tree. It’s mouth turned down in a grimace. From what Jon could only imagine.

“Do you see?” The voice asked calmly. 

“See what?” Jon whispered back, not wanting to be heard by any who might walk by.

“Not with those eyes,” the voice said, winds picking up. “But with your third eye. _ This _ eye.” Jon, again, felt a cold snap in his mind and a weightlessness as he drifted through nothingness. 

At last he found his footing along the edge of a cliff. Paws softly padded along the side as Jon looked about. There was a cold breeze, but the usual ruinous chill barely registered through the thick fur.  _ Sleep _ the creature thought, and Jon too, felt the need to close his eyes. The mountain cat opened its maw in a giant yawn escaped it. The mountain cat had spotted an overhang not too far from where it was, it would need to climb higher to rest there for the night. 

“Take control,” the voice said. “Go right if it wants to go left.”

The cat snarled at whatever it heard.  _ Danger _ it thought.  _ Attack. Kill. _

“Take control, boy.” The cat shook its head and began to run along the cliff face.

“Take control.” The cat swerved to the left, up the mountain towards the cavern it spotted.

“Take control.”

It was as if Jon had emerged from a deep sleep. In this waking world though, he fought in ways he never thought possible before. His mind was flooded with thoughts of fleeing, escaping to a safe place. He made a concerted effort to suppress those thoughts. To stop. To turn right. To begin walking down the slope. 

_ What is happening? _ Jon thought. Or was it the mountain cat which thought those things?

The longer Jon was in charge of moving this body, the weaker he felt. Controlling this cat was more taxing than he ever thought was possible. Not even after several hours of training in the yard did Jon feel this exhausted.  _ Is this real? Is this skinchanging? _ Jon looked around through the eyes of a cat, and noticed things he knew he never would have as a human. Movement to his left made him stop, crouching in anticipation. Mice were scavenging about the loose rocks, causing the ruckus. Jon continued on, since he wasn’t hungry. At least not for mice. 

At last he made it to the valley. The grass felt nice between his toes and he swept his tail along the green blades. A creek ran through a divot between hills and he could hear the trickling of water even from a distance. Jon and the mountain cat paused for a moment to take in the scenery.

It was no long before they spotted another mountain cat marching into the valley. The male cat in the distance marched towards them, staring intently. Why, was lost to Jon.

_ We are both men. If he wants to fight, I shall fight. _

_ Run _ , the cat thought.  _ Flee. Not now. Not like this _ . Before Jon could understand how a cat could have coherent thought, the male cat had made huge strides towards them. It was aggressive in its stance, and it seemed as though it wouldn’t let them go.

Jon turned to run back up the side of the cliff, such was the mountain cat’s avid desire. Jon could hear the other cat . For every stride they made up the side, the other male made three. Jon felt so tired. All too soon, the male pounced upon them, and Jon rolled onto their back to attack him with their claws. It was only now that he could see how much larger and older this cat was than themselves.

The male persisted, his teeth bared. Together, they hissed out a sign of protest. Jon tried to roll back on their feet, but the male continued and jumped upon their back. They fell down chest first, and the male cat shifted his position and dug sharp claws along his back. Jon’s breathing became laboured as he felt his hide break apart and hot blood gush out on his fur. 

There was a cold snap within his head.

“That’s enough for today,” the voice said. 

Jon collapsed on all fours as if he were still a cat, taking laboured breaths.

“What,” Jon gasped. “What was that? What happened?” 

“That was you skinchanging into a mountain cat. What happened is…regrettable. I did not anticipate those events. But what it amounts to is the strong overpowering the weak.”

Jon sat on his bottom, his back still aching from where the larger cat had cut him.

“I don’t want to do that again,” he pleaded. At first blush, it seemed fun. He had become a cat, afterall. But his confrontation with that male cat made him shiver to remember it.

“You must. Perhaps not the mountain cat again, but you must learn to use this power, boy.”

Jon felt incredibly weak. He was mentally taxed, though he had barely thought about anything at all. Maths had hardly been this grating. 

“I don’t know how. Please,” he pleaded again. He wanted to say that he didn't want this power, but the voice cut him off.

“Reach out with your mind and find the nearest creature. Place yourself inside it. That is what I want you to do the next time we meet.”

“I-I can’t!” Jon protested. But it was already too late. The winds had shifted and the voice had left him alone in the Godswood. 

Jon ran back inside exhausted and ready to cry. He held his tears back, however, when he saw his Lord father, Robb, and Theon make their way back from the hunt. The three unloaded their spoils as the rest of their hunting party busied themselves by cleaning up and catering to their needs. 

“Look!” Robb enthused when he saw Jon along the perimeter wall. “I shot a deer in the ass!”

“Robb,” their father warned.

“I shot it first,” Robb amended unphased. “And then Theon killed it was an arrow through the neck.”

“So it was my kill, really.” Theon added. Robb stuck his tongue out at him when he turned back to his horse. 

Jon heard their words, but his eyes were locked on the deer. It’s black orbs for eyes stared out towards nothing, and its tongue hung limp, grotesque against the sleek hide of the horse. Flies were already swarming around the rear and neck wounds.  _ The strong overpower the weak _ , the voice said. But was this a bad thing? He remembered being overpowered by the male cat, and he never wanted to be weak like that again.

“Jon?” Robb queried as he walked closer to him. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Jon answered shaking himself from his thoughts. “Yes, I was just admiring the deer.”

Robb began to say something when their father told them to get ready for supper. Jon marched inside without saying another word to Robb, leaving him looking listlessly after Jon.

Jon washed and dressed himself for dinner, and seated himself next to Robb and across from Sansa. He picked at his food, barely touching it. This time Robb didn’t mention anything about it. 

After dinner, each sibling went back to their room. Usually, Robb and him would sneak off into the kitchens and find sweets to snack on or find mischief to make in the servants quarters (their father had increased the punishment for doing that, though, so they hadn’t done it in quite some time). Tonight, however, Jon remained in his room, content with his own thoughts to keep him company. 

_ That voice said I was a skinchanger, and what I experienced to day, and several months ago, is difficult to explain away as something else. _

_ He wanted me to do it, but how is it done when I’ve never done it myself?  _ He thought he should at least try, however. If not, that being might find out and haunt him some more.

He sat on his bed, legs crossed, eyes closed, trying to will his mind into an animal. There weren’t any animals in his room, though. So he thought that perhaps that was a place he needed to start. He would try, he would fail, and he would go to sleep.

There was a Basset Hound that roamed the castle kitchens which he and Robb fed scraps of food to from time to time. Jon thought he could bring him up to his room to test this, and no one would be the wiser. 

He snuck down to the kitchens, finding a scrap of meat from tonight's dinner as incentive for the dog to follow him. He made clicking sounds with his tongue, trying to get the attention of the dog. 

“Come here,” Jon called in a hushed voice, holding the scrap of meat out. “I have food for you.”

Jon heard snuffling around the corner of an entrance, and the Basset Hound appeared at the archway. He was light brown about his head and body with a dark brown splotch on the top of his back. His feet and legs were white, but had become darker from never really getting a good wash.

“Come here. Good boy,” Jon said patting the dog on his head and giving him the scrap of meat as a reward for coming to him. His ears hung low, and were longer than any ears he had seen on a hound before. They were well past his body and touching his legs near the floor.

“This way, come on,” Jon urged, trying to walk back to his room slowly.

“Jon?” Robb called as he found him tempting the dog away from the kitchen. “What are you doing?”

“Training the dog,” Jon lied instantly. “I want him to attack Theon whenever I command,” he joked.

“Funny,” Robb said sardonically. “But that’s a lie.”

“It’s nothing,” Jon said more desperate to cover up his actions. “It’s none of your business, anyway.”

“I could help?” Robb offered, trying not to be too offended by Jon’s words.

“No, it’s okay. I just...” and Jon decided to tell him half the truth. “I just wanted to bring him up to my room. I think I have a mouse problem, and wanted to take care of it by myself.”

“Why didn’t you say so first?”

“I leave food lying around and didn’t want anyone to see my room,” Jon lied again, almost too easily. 

“Well, okay. I can hep lug this thing up to your room and then leave before you open the door then.”

Jon nodded his head in agreement. “That sounds good. Sorry I-”

“It’s okay. I’d be disappointed too if I didn’t get to go out hunting today.”

Jon made a weak smile. Was his pain so easy to see? He got down to business, however, as Robb approached the dog. Each boy alternatively carried and tempted the dog along until they had made it to Jon’s room.

“Hopefully, your mouse problem will be gone by morning,” Robb said before parting ways. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Jon repeated back. He didn’t move until Robb turned the corner, and then opened the door and shoved the droopy dog into his room. 

“Move, dog,” he begged it, trying to close the door. The dog merely stared at him, took a long yawn, and then settled down on the floor. Jon closed the door through shear force, shoving the rest of the dog into his room. 

Jon was almost too frustrated to continue on with his plan. He lay on his stomach on his bed, hands holding his head up. He stared holes into the sleepy dog trying to figure out how to skinchange.

_ There was always a cold snap within my mind when it happened before. Do I need to find a way to do that again? _

He tried envisioning himself as the dog. He tried holding his breath and forcing his conscience outwards. Whatever that meant. The more he tried, the more tired he became. It had been a long day and it was clear he wasn’t making any progress.

_ It’s clear that I don’t have this skill. I tried and failed, so now I’ll sleep. _

He shooed the dog out of his room, it could find its way back to the kitchens on its own, Jon was sure. He went back to his bed, changed out of his day clothes, and went to sleep. Almost the moment his head hit the pillow, Jon had passed out.

The dog named Bassel waddled through the halls unsure of where it was. It had never come this way before, and never really wanted to again. The process to get here had been trying on him, and he didn’t like being handled so much by those human pups.

Bassel came to a T at the end of the hallway, and couldn’t remember which way he had come. He started sniffing the ground. He smelled the human pup with light hair who brought him up going in both directions, the older trail lead left, though. So he supposed he should follow that scent.

_ Go right _ , a voice told him from somewhere.  _ It’s faster and no one will care if they spot you. _ Bassel didn’t like this new thought, he began to whine at doing something not intuitive to his nature.

_ Right. Go right _ .

Bassel went right against his better judgement, though, was this voice not his own judgement?

Near the end of the gloomy hallway, Bassel came across stairs.

_ Stairs!? _

The thought nearly got him barking. A low growl escaped his mouth instead and he bared his teeth at his old nemesis.

_ It’s fine. Stairs can’t hurt you! Just go slow. _

If Bassel had been only a year younger, he would have worked himself into a panic even considering go up stairs, let alone down them. And yet, here he stood at the top thinking about walking down them.

_ It’ll be okay. _

Bassel slowly, slowly made his way down the steps. One foot followed the other, stomach scraping along the ledges.

There was noise behind him at the top of the stairs and the other voice in his head became panicked. Bassel didn’t understand this panic, but he felt it all the same. He took his steps at a quicker pace, faster than he ever intended.

Bassel’s ears became entangled with his feet, tripping him head over heels down the stairs. He started falling, hitting his back along the edges all the way down.

“Woo, roo, woof!” Bassel complained in pain. “Woo, woo…” he moaned as he finally came to a stop on the ground floor. 

He heard a sharp intake of breath from the top, and Jon gasp for breath in his bed. He sat up and made for the door, noticing his back hurting a decent amount as he did so.

_ But that wasn’t me. That was the dog… Bassel. _

Jon ran down the hallway, his bare feet slapping on the cold stone floor loud enough that he thought he would wake everyone. He made it to the stairs where he saw a figure hunched over Bassel at the base. Slowly, he descended.

“Arya?” he whispered. The small figure in the night gown and dark hair could be none other.

“Jon?” she whispered back. “Can you help me with him? He’s gotten himself hurt!”

“Of course. We can carry him back to the kennels if-”

“No, he looks hurt. The other dogs will make it worse for him. Please Jon, can you hide him in your room overnight, just until we know he’s not in a bad way?”

Jon chewed his lip. He had just hurried Bassel out of his room in frustration, but ended up skinchanging anyway. Perhaps he owed it to this poor creature to put up with his stubbornness. 

“Alright, help me carry him.”

Jon and Arya carried the poor dog back towards his room, Jon carrying most of the weight as they crab-walked down the hall. When they got to his room, Arya grabbed his favourite blanket and threw it on the ground as a make-shift bed for Bassel to Jon’s annoyance. But he conceded that the dog was probably in need of comfort. Bassel limped over to the blanket, scratched and dug at them to get them more to his liking, and then settled in a C. Once Arya saw that the dog was comfortable, she bid Jon goodnight, and hoped she didn’t get caught by her Lady Mother.

Jon sat perched on the edge of his bed staring at Bassel. How strange, that he had only learned his name through the dog’s own thoughts. 

His eyes began to droop as his day kept dragging on.  _ What was it that voice told me today? Something about weakness and strength? _ Jon could barely manage to string coherent thoughts together as he pulled a stiff, scratchy woolen blanket over himself.

_ I don’t want weak… Bassel and stairs is… strong… be strong. Not again… be strong… _

And Jon drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes vegetable mash and finds out his heart bleeds.

The sun was at its zenith when Jon and Robb went riding out into the vegetable fields beyond Winterfell. They had just been allowed to begin riding horses, a true upgrade from what they were used to. It felt exhilarating to be so high off the ground. It was emboldening to do something so grown up. Afterall,  _ knights _ rode horses into battle. Not ponies. That would be absurd.

Jon and Robb rode to the side of the vegetable patches, Robb making extra sure his horse’s gait didn’t trample a squash or carrot. Jon, however, was more bold. When they made to turn, Jon cut into the curve, crushing the crops underneath. He never looked down though, he was so consumed with winning the race. He let out a holler when he sped past the bushes on the far side of the field which marked the finish line. 

“I win!” he yelled back at Robb, who had slowed to a trot.

“That’s not fair, Jon. You shouldn’t be running all over the fields.”

“You’re just jealous that I won,” he remarked back smuggly.

“No, we shouldn’t have come this way in the first place,” Robb said sullenly, shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?”

“You rode right over the crops back there! You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It was only one or two at most. It’s not a big-”

“It is, though!” Robb insisted.

Jon stared at him in disbelief, unable to understand why something so small could create such a big reaction.

“These are our Lord Father’s people and we tread right over their food. The food they provide for us.”

“Yes, but it was only a lit-”

“I’m going to be Lord of Winterfell one day, and then they will be  _ my _ people. I don’t want to be known as the Lord that trampled all over their food,” Robb said hotly. “I guess you wouldn’t understand though, since…” he trailed off, looking away disgusted. Whether by Jon or by his own thoughts, Jon couldn’t tell.

“I know it,” Jon retorted. “I’m just a bastard. That’s it, right?” Jon rode his horse up along side Robb’s to stare him face to face. “I won’t inherit and I don’t have a name. But at least I can stay out all day and not be missed. Ser Rodrick will be wondering where you’ve been all his time and your Lady Mother might be having a fit.”

Robb’s expression dropped and he looked away from Jon. “I’ll be heading back, then.”

“Fine. I’ll be out here, practicing my riding, crushing crops under hoof,” Jon said sarcastically.

Robb scowled at that, but didn’t protest. He turned his horse around and, careful of the fields, rode back to Winterfell with some haste.

Jon wanted to ride back with him. Get berated, even, by Rodrick before training together with Robb. But, the little pride that Jon had, had kept him firmly on the spot. His bastardy had always been an open wound which no amount of skinchanging could heal him of.

The past year and a bit had seen Jon grow in many sorts of ways. He had been studious with his studies and had even begun to enjoy reading for the pleasure of knowledge… Most of the time. He had begun to train harder with the sword, as well. The thought of becoming stronger and heroic was tantalizing, like Aemon the Dragonknight or the Hungry Wolf. Even Aegon the Conqueror. Jon used to idolize the Young Dragon because he felt connected to him through their shared youth, but reading more about him left Jon disillusioned. He wanted to be smarter. Perhaps Jaehaerys I really was the best of rulers. 

Not that it mattered at the moment. Jon turned his horse away from Winterfell and made for the King’s Road. He didn’t know what drove him, but he found himself go farther and farther away. The trees lining the road eventually gave way to low lying brush, and that to grasses and lichen covered rocks. Jon had never travelled this far south by himself before. It had always been in the company of his Lord Father and retinue, or Robb and Theon. The thought made him feel nervous, but he brushed it off as a cart approached. Jon nodded a hello to the family passing by. Their faces were gaunt and grim, and they drove an oxen with huge horns, hanging low to the ground.

What was he doing? Where was he going? He didn’t have an answer, but passing through this barren, silent land calmed him of his worries.

Jon knew the options in life for a bastard were limited. Robb, however, was born and raised to be the next Lord of Winterfell. Jon had all the experience, but none of the luck. Here in the barren foothills of the North, Jon could really let his mind drift without any piercing gaze. 

He got off his horse at the edge of the road and, finding a sizable rock, threw it as far as he could across the land. He picked up another rock and threw it again. And again. And again. He threw rocks until he let out a pained yell. He wondered how far it would echo. 

Jon sat down beside his horse and tried not to cry at his own weaknesses. He hated how he envied Robb. He didn’t want to, but he did. There was this fire inside him that burned to be proven worthy of his father, to finally be called a Stark. He knew it would never happen though, and tried to suppress those fantasies. What was it about today which caused him to despair?

As the sun began to close the gap between the sky and the horizon, Jon realized that he’d been away for a good long while, and he wondered what was happening at Winterfell. He closed his eyes searching for his friend’s presence. Finding it, he entered Bassel’s mind to take a look around.

Bassel was sleeping outside the kitchens on a discarded burlap sac when Jon brought a new item to his attention. 

_ Can you go find Robb for me, please? _

Bassel gave a low growl, and tried to close his eyes again. He had just been dreaming about tearing apart all the stairs in the world and then receiving the biggest, juiciest piece of meat from the nice kitchen maid when Jon had so rudely awoken him. 

_ Please. _

Giving a loud huff, Bassel got up, stretched his back, and shook himself awake. He trudged through the court yard across to the structure with all the stairs and man-beds. He sniffed around the first level and, finding nothing, went to the next through an open-aired corridor. The next structure had many large rooms and places for men to sit and eat and throw food to him. Bassel began to salivate remembering when Jon had snuck him a large morsel of meat the other night when he came looking for food. He liked this place. 

“...not come back?” a man asked in the great structure. 

“No. He stayed out.”

“That’s not like him.”

The other person remained quiet. 

Jon had determined that it was his Lord Father and Robb talking to each other. He could identify his father’s sombre baritone from a dozen voices in the room.

Bassel desperately wanted to enter the room and get something to eat, but Jon held him back.

_ Not yet. I’ll feed you when I see you next. _

“Well, you should go bring him back. I don’t want him getting lost or worse when night falls.”

“Why me?”

“Do you know why he’s not back yet?”

Again, Robb remained silent.

“Then go find him.”

Robb exited the large structure, pausing to look at Bassel, but not long enough to give him a pet. Bassel was sad.

The dog finally entered the room looking for food from the other people there. He was quite excited at the prospect. His food this morning had been gruel with a few scraps of chicken thrown on top. Bassel salivated more at the thought of beef or pork.

He waddled up to the Lord Stark and eyed him for treats. He noticed that the bigger he made his eyes, the more likely it was that he got food. This didn’t seem to be the case this time though, as the Lord merely commented “You’ve drooled everywhere…” Having not understood what was said, Bassel began to wag his tail in anticipation.

Lady Stark stepped forward, towards her mate. Her lips were pressed together and one side tilted downward into a grimace.

“Ned,” she said in a hushed, but stern voice. “He and the boys have gone hunting in the wilderness over night. I don’t see why you’ve sent Robb after him, now.”

Lord Stark looked over to his wife, age lines deepening around his eyes and brow. “If there’s been an altercation between them, I want them to resolve it. Not have it hanging between them.”

“Then send a hunter out.”

“I will discipline my children as I see fit.”

“Robb is mine, too. I would have him with a skilled tracker at night rather than by himself. How you chose to deal with Jon is your concern, though. I will not be a part of that.”

“Is it so hard to-”

“Yes. Yes it is, Ned,” Lady Stark interrupted. “And you know why. I would rather him be far away to forget about your indiscretions, but I suffer him for the love I bear you.”

Bassel whined a little. He knew something bad was being said and didn’t like the atmosphere in the room. He started to whine more as he felt Jon become sombre.

Lord Stark was silent. He looked down at Bassel who slowly wagged his tail slowly in an effort again for food.

Remaining solemn, Lord Stark returned his gaze to the Lady.

“You’re right, Robb should go with rangers. I will deal with Jon when he gets back.”

Lady Stark nodded her head and turned towards the back exit without another word.

Jon slowly began to come back to himself, but not before hearing his Lord father say: “What do I do with you, Jon?”.

Jon’s heart fell. It had been so long since there had been an incident like this. He had done his best to avoid Catelyn’s icy stares, he had almost begun to believe she might  _ not _ dislike him anymore. That it had all been in his head. 

Of course, it wasn’t.

He decided to turn his horse around and slowly make his way back to Winterfell. Night was coming, and although he was sure he could have survived a night alone out here, he didn’t want to risk it. 

He picked up his pace as he began to squint to make out oncoming objects. Trees were beginning to make an appearance again on the landscape, so he knew he was only a couple miles away. A good run would see him back at Winterfell just before dinner.

Jon slowed his horse down as he was about to pass the oxen-driven cart. He could hear a woman’s voice urging someone to do something.

“Shiera,” a man said. “He ain’t gettin’ back up. ‘Knew we was pushin’ ‘im too har’.”

“I know this road,” the woman replied. “We only have a little ways more to go.”

“Do you need help?” Jon asked, pausing by the side of the cart to not scare the tired oxen.

A little girl, who looked no older than Arya, stared at him with large, innocent eyes from the cart. She even had dark hair done into a ratty braid just like Arya. The only thing was, she was skinny, too skinny, and her eyes had a desperation in them he didn’t understand. He averted his gaze from the little girl, and kept his focus on the adults. The adults, too, had eyes hungry for something Jon had in abundance.

“No’ something you can do ‘bout it, boy. Ox’s dead tired. ‘Less you can brin’ him round back to life, you best be gettin’ ‘ome.”

Jon wanted to get home as fast as possible, but he knew there was something he could do. After this afternoon and all this talk of lordships and parenting and bastardy and agonizing over his life, looking at this family reminded him that perhaps there were worse situations he could be in.

“You’re going north, right? Past Winterfell?” Jon sought an answer from them, but continued when they didn’t say anything. “I can give you my horse if you can drive me back to the castle tonight.”

“Why’d you do that, boy? Tha’ horse look’s qui’ spensive. We lost’ours in a fire las’ year, ‘nd never recovered from tha’. Can’t ‘spect me to pay for tha’.”

“It’s fine. Helping me get to Winterfell will be payment enough.” Jon thought a moment before adding, “and perhaps not mentioning to my father that I let you keep the horse.”

The man looked at his wife, who looked at him, who then looked at his daughter, who was looking at Jon, who was looking at the man.

The stare off continued for several moments, until the man finally exclaimed “Fine! I’ll keep ma’ pride ta me-self tonight.”

By the time the horse was hitched to the caravan with the oxen trailing behind, the sun had disappeared beyond the horizon and lamps swung back and forth on the front of the cart as it got rolling. 

A little ways down the road, the girl perked up. “Do you live in… in Winterbell?”

“Er,” Jon managed before her mother interrupted.

“Don’t be askin’ questions, Flora.”

“It’s okay,” Jon responded. “It’s actually Winter _ fell _ , and yes, I do live there.”

“Oh.” Flora responded. “Is there a lotta food there?”

“Mhmm,” Jon nodded. “Sometimes there's so much food that two hundred or more people can’t finish it all.”

“Ah,” the girl’s eyes sparkled. “Momma, can we stay?”

“No, dear. We best be movin’ on.”

“But-”

“It’s final, sweetum.”

It was dead silent for the rest of the trip. 

As they mounted the last hill, Jon could see the lights in Winterfell flickering in the distance. He supposed that his father might be angry at him once he entered through the gates, but Jon had prepared himself for that. He just hoped that his punishment wasn’t too gruelling, like cleaning the raven tower. He would have preferred cleaning the stables to the rookery any day, the smell was so intense.

As they entered the town, men on horses approached them: one in front, the other behind. The man in front carried a sword on his side and was cloaked in a light grey tunic. He held a lamp which he lifted as they approached the carriage and called out.

“You! Have you seen a boy? No more than 11 years.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Jon sighed. He stood himself up in the cart and began to get down.

“Jon!” called a familiar voice. It was Robb cloaked in dark fabrics, holding a torch out in the night. “We’d looked everywhere for you! Even past the forests!”

“Sorry,” Jon mumbled. “I went farther than that.”

“Who are these, then?” the other man Jon didn’t recognized asked in a harsh tone.

“They, uh,” Jon thought quickly. “They helped me get back here. My horse died from a bad tumble and they were kind enough to bring me here.” He could feel all eyes upon him, and he did his best to hold his head high, trying to convince this man of the lie.

“But-” Robb started, clearly able to see the horse in front was Jon’s

“I know,” Jon cut him off. “I ride too recklessly. It’s my fault that such a healthy, young horse could have died so terribly.”

The strange man snorted. “I bet your father would like to have a word or two with you.”

“I know he does,” Jon responded, trying his best to keep his features calm.

Meanwhile, the family who had been escorting him sat silent. Not willing to interject an armed man, or an apparent young lord. The mother had clasped her daughter, and the husband had grasped his wife.

When Jon was on the ground, he slowly followed behind Robb. He paused though, turning back to bow to the family.

“Thank you for helping me. I hope we can meet again.” He said loudly so they could hear. He then turned and ran to catch up with Robb.

When they had rounded the corner, the tension that had built in the family was released, and a collective sigh escaped their mouths. 

“Who was that, then?” the mother asked.

“Foul luck,” said an old man who approached from a nearby doorway. “That there was the Bastard o’ Winterfell. Lordly enough to demand your respect, but lowly enough that he can’t give you payment. Whatever good deed you did him for, won’t be rewarded.”

“Well he-” the daughter began, but her mother covered her mouth.

“Like I said, dear,” the mother interjected. “We best be movin' on.”

The husband harrumphed, gave the old man a g'night, and drove the horse off, no one the wiser. 


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man with half a head visits Winterfell.

It had been over a year since Jon had spoken to the voice in the woods. Not that he minded, but the longer it went on the more he began to think it was all a creation of his imaginings. Another few months would mark his thirteenth birthday, and well on his way to becoming a man grown. Boys in the south would have been taken on as a Page by now, and made a Squire at fourteen. But that wasn’t quite how it worked in the North.

“Every man’s skill is his own making,” his father had said.

Jon trained himself in the courtyard even after Ser Rodrick had released the boys from training. He had read histories and other books of knowledge, some more dry than others. For instance, inventories of supplies were a thing of nightmares. Tables and tables, ledger upon ledger of items received and sold, bought and got rid of. What was the point of keeping these for longer than needed?

But then Jon came across ledgers for the Night’s Watch detailing all the men who were sent to the Wall through Winterfell.  _ Sent _ being the choice word here.

_ Joseth,  _ one read,  _ murdered two women in Flea Bottom before making off with jewellry. Caught by the King's Guards and offered the choice of death or lifetime service in the Nights’ Watch.  _

_ Harold _ , another began,  _ caught in the Stormlands soliciting illicit goods. Sent to the Wall as punishment. _

On and on it went. Most if not all of the most recent ledgers detailed criminal after criminal being ushered through to the Nights’ Watch.

This had disheartened Jon. His uncle, Benjen, served on the Wall, and to know that he was surrounded by thieves and murderers was an unpleasant thought. To think one might try to hurt him sent a shiver through his spine. Jon had even thought about joining his uncle in the Nights’ Watch, but the thought of it now made him sad. Benjen was his favourite uncle, not fully in part because he was his only uncle. He gave Jon his ear and full attention, which was something he lacked very much with other adults around the castle. He didn’t blame anyone in particular for it, and knew his Lord Father was quite busy all the time. But… It still hurt all the same.

This had left Jon with a bit of a predicament: what was he to do once he came of age? He might be able to ask his Lord Father for an allowance to build a castle and start his own household. He had heard him mutter something about repopulating the New Gift a while back with some other Northern Lords. Yet he doubted he could hold authority at sixteen, let alone as a bastard. Would anyone take his orders seriously? Servants certainly did in Winterfell, but he was the son of Eddard Stark who was still the head of the household. If he were on his own, would he still be respected?

_ There’s always the Nights’ Watch, _ a voice whispered somewhere deep inside him. Despite knowing the truth, he still yearned to be close to his uncle, where he might tell him more stories of ranging beyond the Wall, and his encounter with Wildings. Where he might muss up his hair (even though Jon always protested it), tutor him in swordplay, and tell him how well he was coming along…

Jon was walking along the corridors of the second floor when he saw his Lord Father down below him giving Bran a pat on the back. He was no more than four, but already liked to run and climb and play with swords all through the yards of Winterfell. His Father looked amused by his behaviour, and smiled after Bran as he ran towards the stables.

It was then that Jon knew he just wanted a father that was wholly his. There was always something which kept his Father more distant from him than with Robb or Bran or the girls. It was not an obvious thing, he made time for his and Robb’s education, and had been there to care when he needed him most. But it was as though there was a film which lifted in the past couple months which granted Jon new eyes. His father was more guarded around him. Most recently it materialized when Jon insisted to know who his mother was. He said he was ready for the knowledge and prepared to learn any outcome. Even the fact that she may be dead. 

His Lord Father had always looked troubled, tired, sad even, when he asked it. Finally, he said: “Enough! I will tell you when I deem it suitable,” and that was the end of it.

Jon quickly walked out of the castle walls, the cool temperature of the stones made him feel clammy as his thoughts wandered into unpleasant territory. He made his way towards the Godswood to pray and clear his thoughts. He had not wanted to go back after the incident with the disembodied voice, but that had been ages ago. Almost forgotten to an almost twelve-year-old.

He wanted guidance, wisdom of some sort. His thoughts were whizzing around his head too fast for most to be followed through. 

“What do I do with my life?” he asked. Staying silent for a moment to let the prayer fill the air, he continued: “And please let my Lord Father love me more. Not too much,” he amended, thinking that a smaller prayer might get better results. “Just enough so that he can trust me to know who my mother is. Please.”

“You can always,” interrupted a voice in the gloom. “Come ask me these questions.” 

A man appeared from behind a tree wearing the clothes of a peasant, wearing filthy woolen breeches with patch work at the knees and elbows. But that wasn’t the most striking thing about him. Jon had thought at first that shadows were playing tricks on his eyes. As the man stepped out into the light, it highlighted his concave forehead. It was as if someone had scooped part of his head away. Skin covered the bowl shape to his forehead, but no hair grew within it, nor anywhere on his head for that matter. Had his forehead been filled in, the man standing before him would have looked quite regular: not handsome, but not ugly: he had striking green-yellow eyes and a strong, angled nose. The cavity in his head though, brought attention to itself, and so the otherwise regular features of this man’s face were rendered monstrous because of it.

Jon took a sharp intake of breath and stepped back a few paces unnerved by this unusual sight. 

“Who-” Jon began before he cut himself off. This was either a man here to kill him, or a man to torment him.

“Is this the first we’ve met?” The stranger queried. 

Jon knew right away who it was.

“Why do you keep asking that question? And why have you never shown yourself before?” He demanded. This man had tousled his mind about on the last couple occasions, so Jon thought he had a right to some answers.

The man grinned and crossed his arms. His mouth revealed a chipped front tooth and missing teeth on the bottom. 

“I ask because, well, I don’t know the answer myself.” Jon gave a snort to that as if it wasn’t good enough. “And I have never shown myself before, because… I suppose I will not have this body in the past.”

“Will not?” Jon questioned back at him. “Who are you? And why do you keep appearing?”

The man bowed his head before giving a proper introduction.

“I have gone by many names. Some are used as a curse, others a term of endearment. I did not get to choose all my names, but I’ve found most are apt to describe me. Some are spoken in the common tongue, others are the whispers on the breeze which only the trees and children of the forest can fully understand. I am all things terrible but just. All things that history books love to write about but never get right. I am a crow, a raven, a dark wood, and a dragon. Can you guess who I am, boy?”

_ Bloodraven _ , he thought.

“No,” said instead. “He should be long dead. You appear to be a young man.”

“Yes, I have broken a rule I set for myself many eons ago to never control another human being. It seems,” and the man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers swiped his hand across his concave head. “That this man was not all there to begin with, which might be why I am controlling him now.”

“Control him? With… Skinchanging?”

“Yes, but I do not recommend it. In fact, in most areas of the world, it is a forbidden act which can be considered a sin.”

“Where are  _ you _ then? The  _ real _ you?”

“Somewhere quite far away.”

“Fine, don’t answer then. I’ll just call the guards to come get you.” Jon threatened.

The man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers chuckled. “I am far enough away that it makes no matter for you. I am beyond the Wall and out of reach to even the King of Westeros.”

Jon scowled. “You still haven’t answered my other question.”

“I appear because I made a-.”

“You said that before.”

“Did I? Then you must forgive me. You see, I can not account for what my past self has said and I cannot yet account for the many promises I keep.”

“Why?”

“Because you are still a boy.”

“I’m old enough to hear it!” Jon protested, trying not to sound too much like a young boy.

“There will be a time and place for everything. Now is not the moment for this conversation.”

Jon snorted again in frustration.  _ This is just like asking my Father about my mother all over again. _

“Is there anything you can tell me? If you are who you say you are, it’s said you have a thousand memories and one. What good is having a thousand memories if all you do is tease people?”

“Memories?” the man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers asked. “Not eyes?”

“Yes, memories. It’s a common saying about Bloodraven.”

“Then I’ve done something which has changed the past…” 

“Why do you speak like that? As if you don’t know your own history?”

“Because I mostly do not.”

The two of them stood there in silence for a moment. Jon’s face began to snarl at the thought of this man and his lies, entering his family’s Godswood to tease him so. The man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers seemed troubled by the news, his features contorting even more. 

Bloodraven finally broke the silence. “Imagine swimming through a current going in the opposite direction to it. Fish swim by you on the way out to the ocean, you can interact with them when you meet them, but then they’re on their way, and you’re on yours. If you’ve done it a thousand times, you would know that there is a rock in a hundred feet which you need to steer clear of or a group of large fish which always roams in a certain area, so you need to tread carefully there. But now with this promise, I feel as though I’m swimming in murky and unfamiliar waters.”

“What are you saying?” Jon was quite confused by his ramblings.

The man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers stared at him with a long face and sorrowful eyes. “My apologies, I forget sometimes that we do not know each other too well.”

After clearing his throat, he continued. “I experience time backwards as well as forwards, as you experience it.” He waved his finger back and forth to represent himself and Jon. “Like a metronome or a pendulum I go back and forth and the journey back can get confusing.”

Jon didn’t know how to respond to that. Out of all the things he had heard in his life, this had to be the wildest one. 

“How can… Can you prove it?”

Without hesitation, the man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers rambled off a list of things to come: “You will have veal stew tonight. You will wake up to-morrow morning and find a dead mouse at the end of the hallway. A week from now, Arya, your favourite sister, will try her hand at the bow and be found by you, only to be told to be more careful about it next time and that you’ll keep her secret. In two weeks your Lord Father will decide to leave for Whiteharbour to try to make a better deal with Bravos about their exports. In six week's time, your dear dog Bassel will meet a grim end. In two-”

Jon cut him off. “What!? What happens to Bassel?”

“He gets injured and does not recover.”

Jon was already running back when he had barely finished the sentence. He reached out to Bassel with his mind trying to locate him. Was this a threat to him?

_ Bassel, no fooling around alright? _

Bassel lifted his head from his canvas bed. He had been sleeping in the heavy summer sun when Jon had awoken him with a great start. Bassel made a deep growl and let out a “woo-woo” of acknowledgement before falling back to sleep.

Jon weaved his way through the court yard and hallways, trying to find Bassel. He at last found him where he thought he would next to the kitchens. Jon ran up to him and started giving him head scratches, and then began to rub his belly as Bassel slowly rolled over at his touch. 

“You’ve made good progress with your skinchanging,” the man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers calmly claimed behind him. 

Having been startled, Jon fell forwards into Bassel, but gingerly avoided having his weight fall on top of him, catching his weight on his elbows. He let out an “ooof” in pain before turning to face this damned man again.

Bloodraven wore a hood upon his head, concealing the concavity so that any onlooker would not notice the monstrosity amongst them. 

“Get away from me,” Jon demanded.

“If you so wish, but I can help you with a great many things. Answers, for instance? Not for everything, not yet. But for many things which you might find… illuminating.” 

A thought passed through his mind:  _ my mother _ . But he quickly discarded it. His father should be the one to tell him, not this man who he was not entirely sure of. 

“Leave.”

“Of course, but I will be back.”

Jon made an attempt to object but Bloodraven cut him off.

“I will be exactly where I need to be to help you in whatever way I can.”

“But why me? I’m just a bastard. Why not Robb or Theon or anyone else?”

The man who claimed to by Brynden Rivers smiled sadly and replied, “Because I made a promise.”


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon plays detective, is a big brother, and has a bad dream.

The solstice had come and gone, and the days began to get shorter. The long summer did not seem to want to loosen its grip on the land, and the heat from the day still lingered into the night causing blankets to be tossed about in most beds. This is when everything began to change for Jon.

For a month’s time Jon had been on edge. The first several events had come to pass and he was unnerved by the accuracy of that man, Bloodraven. This made him all the more anxious about Bassel. Knowing what would happen would be half the battle, would it not? He could be on guard and prepared for this eventuality and avoid it all together. What was the point of knowing, otherwise?

He hadn’t noticed at first, but Bassel was apart of him. Slow but honest, anxious but caring, he was a friend of Jon’s and his habits of sleeping into the morning and longing about the castle may have worn off on him a little. The thought of him dead and gone was… unthinkable. 

After a month of nothing happening, Jon relaxed a bit. He found breathing to be somewhat easier, and his muscles didn’t ache as much at the end of the day. Sleep came upon him like a friend rather than a stranger he had to coerce into submission. He was not entirely composed, but he thought that trying to be calm and collected, like an adult would do, would be better than being distressed and unrested.

The man, Bloodraven, had been a persistent part of his life as well in the last month. He was in the outskirts of the castle, the fringes of one’s vision. Just as soon as Jon would spot him, he would disappear amongst the crowds, or dissolve into the shadows leaving him wondering if he had spotted him at all. He knew better: of course he had, but he would never be able to mention it to his family or the guards. If this was truly Brynden Rivers, and what he had read about him was true, then it would be near impossible to pin him down without bloodshed. 

_ Let him spy upon me, then. I will not be cowed by his presence, and I will not be tempted by his magics. _

The next couple of days saw Jon in a comfortable routine: wake up, eat, practice in the yard, wash, snack, study, eat, sleep. Bassel’s routine remained ever simple: wake up, eat, sleep, eat, nap, eat, beg for more, nap, sleep. Jon found him lying outside the kitchens when he got him up and asked for him to follow. He had some free time before dinner when a rather intriguing thought occurred to him. Although Jon was a little anxious for Bassel to remain where he was to not fall in harm’s way, he was also interested to know the whereabouts of Bloodraven. He had to have been staying around Winterfell or Wintertown. Bassel’s nose was extremely sensitive, and when he put it to good use it worked miracles. He had found Jon’s scarf which he had lost in the woods five years ago last week (not that he was going to wear it again), so he felt hopeful about this. 

The only thing was, he didn’t know what smell to sniff for. Death? Blood? Fire and molten rock? Maybe he just needed to search for a chill down his spine.

“Come on, Bassel!” Jon urged, and, with a harumph, Bassel followed after Jon as they ran out into the town beyond the walls. If he could just let Bloodraven know that he couldn’t hide, then maybe he would leave him alone. 

Bassel was panting by the time they walked past the first house. There was sun still left in the sky and people were still running about the streets. Wheels of cheese, legs of pigs, sheeps’ wool, and hides of cattle were all swirling about the center of the town, transforming into an evening marketplace. 

“Watch yerself,” one man said as he brushed past the two of them. He carried a live goose and several goose wings were tucked under his rope belt. 

“This might be more difficult than I thought,” Jon muttered to Bassel who snorted in agreement. 

_ We’ll start along the outskirts and work our way across the town. Sniff out anything suspicious. I’ll be with you the entire time so I’ll know if you find anything good.  _ Bassel, looking a little sad, wagged his tail in understanding.  _ I’ll give you a leg of chicken when we get back, too. _ Bassel’s tail began to wag harder and mouth water, as they began their search. Jon went left, Bassel went right. 

_ He may well already know we’re here _ , Jon thought apprehensively as he peeked through windows and glanced down alleyways. The closer he got to the centre of the town, the more worried he was that he’d be caught snooping. Of course, he  _ was _ , but for a particular person, not anyone from the town. 

_ Anything, Bassel? _ Jon asked after a good sweep of his side of the town. He reached out to Bassel’s mind and saw he was on edge, giving a low growl at a wooden door. Whatever was behind it must be worth investigating.

Jon ran over to the other side of town brushing past carts and foodstuffs and people. Many looked at him suspiciously or apprehensively, not wanting him to run into themselves or their wears. Muttering followed him. He had heard what they said of him before, and didn’t stick around to see if it was the same.

After taking a wrong turn, and skinchanging several more times to find Bassel’s precise location, Jon found the door. It was part of a stone house, just the same as the ones adjoining it. There was nothing special about it, which made Jon feel skeptical. Surely the place Bloodraven hid had to have been monstrous and strange in the same way that he was. He stared for a long time, willing something to happen inside for him to burst through the door. Nothing did, though.

It felt wrong to just enter someone’s house, but if it was Bloodraven’s house, then… 

Jon gripped the wrought iron handle, gave it a twist, and pushed the door open ever so slightly. Bassel didn’t know how to feel about this, and went back and forth between whining and baring his teeth in a growl. 

Beyond the door, Jon found a quaint room with a hearth and fireplace on the right facing wall, and a long table on the far end of the room. The room was filled with plates and jugs and dried flowers and herbs hung from the fireplace mantle. Someone well off lived here from the village. There was a floral aroma, but there was a sickly smell of sweat and sour milk beneath it.

As he opened the door all the way, he saw what was to the left of him. A steep, wooden staircase led up to what was presumably the attic, and there was a small door frame underneath the stairs which lead to another room. Jon could see a pine bed frame with red blankets adorning it within.

_ There’s someone in there. _ Jon could hear heavy breaths being taken from the far room.

Slowly, Jon crept to the bedroom, trying not to be heard by whoever was there. It could have been Bloodraven, so Jon tried extra hard to be quiet with his steps. He thought he was lucky since his shoes had thick, boiled leather on the bottom, and the floor was cobbled rocks. 

Slowly, carefully, he made his way towards the room. When he peeked around the door frame, he gasped and jumped back a foot. He tried to steady his breath for whatever volley of words might be cast at him, but, after a few minutes of nothing happening, he peeked around the corner again. 

There lay the body Brynden Rivers used in his undergarments, propped up by large pillows in the bed. It was unmistakably him because of the large concavity to his forehead. He was under the covers despite the heat of the approaching evening, and his eyes were half open. He hadn’t moved from when Jon last looked. His eyes staring out towards where Jon stood. 

He thought that perhaps he was dead, except the body was breathing regularly. He blinked, and Jon thought this would be it, Bloodraven would confront him. But nothing happened again. It was just a lifeless, living body.

The more Jon stood there, the more the scene deeply disturbed him. The thing was staring at him, he breathed the same air, but there was nothing behind his eyes… It was like he was staring death in the face.

“Bassel… Let’s go,” Jon urged, as a shiver went down his spine. 

They reached the door and he began to close it when he noticed movement to his right.

“What! What! A thief! A thief's been at my house! Help! Help!” An older woman yelped. She wore a skirt and shawl which were ragged at the ends but might have once been quite vibrant. She dropped her basket as she turned to run back the way she came, but the wicker basket caught her pocket, tugging her back as it hit the ground. 

Meanwhile, Jon had made to run the opposite direction, but stopped when he wanted to set the record straight. He was  _ not _ a thief. He had only been… well, trying to explain what he had been doing might not be the best option for him. He looked back at the woman who had just been tugged backwards, meaning to run set the record straight.

When the older woman turned back to grab her pocket, she looked up and saw Jon’s face. The look growing in her eyes meant she must have suspected who he was. She muttered something which Jon unmistakably heard as “bastard”. 

Having been identified, Jon didn’t know what to do. Should he run, or should he remain here and straighten the situation out? He chose a muddled middle ground. He shouted that he “didn’t steal anything” and that he “wasn’t a thief”, but also ran the opposite direction like his life depended on it. Bassel followed, but couldn’t keep up with Jon’s sprint. Jon told him to take it easy since they weren’t after him, but his pace remained fast paced… as far as a Basset Hound could run.

When Jon reached the Winterfell gates, he sat down with his back against the wall waiting for Bassel to catch up.

“‘That you, young Snow?” a guard asked looking around the corner from his post at him. “We’re about to close the gates for the night.”

“I’m just waiting for my dog, then I’ll come in.” The guard nodded his head at that. 

Bassel came up to him panting like he’d never seen him do before. Slobber came out the sides of his mouth and his tongue lolled out. He seemed happy to have found Jon. Once he did so, he lay down at his feet and wouldn't budge. 

Feeling sorry for Bassel, Jon propped him up on his chest and carried him into the castle like one might carry a young child. He could feel Bassel’s saliva dripping down his back and his heavy panting was right next to his ear. A year ago, Jon wouldn’t have been able to carry Bassel all this way, but he had been training vigorously in the yard and was proud at what he could do now. 

Jon went to the kitchens and found several discarded burlap sacks to make Bassel’s bed with. He put him down, and brought them together. 

_ I’ll get you some water, just stay here. _

He went and did as he said he would and Bassel eagerly lapped the water up, while Jon drank some from a separate cup, himself. 

Knowing he must have missed dinner, Jon took some bread and meat from the kitchen, left some for Bassel to eat, and went up to his room. He found his father in the hall and apologized for missing dinner, not offering a full explanation. He went and lay on his bed after, munching on his scraps of food, to think over everything that happened. 

Bloodraven must have been entering and exiting that man’s body like Jon might enter and exit Bassel’s. Meaning there would be times when he would be completely helpless, like Jon had just witnessed. But there had also been that older woman who seemed to have lived there.  _ Could she have been the poor man’s mother before whatever happened to him? _

Jon heard footsteps in the hallway. As whoever it was came closer, he could also hear sniffles and gasps. They finally knocked on the door.

“J-Jon?” sobbed Arya.

“Come in,” Jon said steadily, trying to be reassuring for his sister.

Arya fled into his room at his admittance. She scrambled into his bed and flung her arms around him. She rested her head against his shoulder and wept quietly against him. Jon remained quiet and placed a hand on her back. He knew she would sometimes be like this if she had gotten into an argument with Sansa. Even for a girl of six, she had a lot of fight in her. Her age also meant she needed a shoulder to cry on every once and awhile. He knew he didn’t have to wait long before she would start talking.

“S-sansa s-said that I w-was a b-bastard, and-and that mother was g-going to s-send me away!” She hiccoughed a few times as she spoke.

Jon’s heart sank. He couldn’t fully put into words why, but he felt deeply hurt and exhausted. But here was Arya who needed him, so he swallowed his feelings and tried to comfort her.

“Why do you think Sansa is telling the truth?”

“Be-because she said we-we both have the s-same hair and f-face.”

“Well, that doesn’t make you a bastard.”

“But, sh-she-”

“Father has those exact some features, and he’s not a bastard, right?”

Arya didn’t vocalize her agreement, but she was noticeably more quiet, looking up to hear what he had to say.

“You and Sansa both have the same mother and father, right? So if she isn’t a bastard, then how could you be a bastard?

Arya wiped a tear away, “But-”

“But you’re not a bastard, Arya. Only I am. I just happen to look like our father, as you do. Nothing more.”

“Are you s-sure?” her sniffled had been slowly fading away the more Jon spoke.

“Mhmmm. You can trust me on this.” They remained quiet for a while, allowing Arya to recover. When she sniffled her last sniffle and began to breathe a little easier, Jon said, “Don’t you remember our little saying?”

In unison, they said: “Don’t trust Sansa,” which made Arya smile. 

“Are you feeling a little better?” he asked

Arya nodded, though her eyes were still a little red and watery.

“Okay, then you should go to bed before your mother finds you out of it.”

She made her way to the door, pausing before she exited.

“You’re still my brother, though. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, big brother,” she said before running down the hall to her room.

After a moment, Jon sighed and went to go close his door. He got back into bed, finished the rest of his dinner, and blew out the candle for the night. He felt more tired than he had after sprinting back to Winterfell. 

Jon went to sleep and dreamed of Wintertown all turned against him. He tried to run but in front of him was a single staring green-yellow eye of Brynden’s body. Behind it, leathery wings of a behemoth sprouted from the darkness, casting a shadow which blotted out the sun. Jon tried to warn everyone of this, but the mob had him in their grasp intent upon tearing him apart. “Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!” They yelled.

Just as suddenly a cold mist rolled in, killing everything in its path. Men, women, and children toppled over and vanished beneath as it crept closer to Jon. Silence encompassed him as if something was blocking his ears. He tried to run, but found himself rooted in place, caught by bony hands emerging from the ground. 

A pair of icy-blue eyes appeared in the distance and slowly made their approach towards him. Jon tried to scream for help but made no sound, the silence had taken his voice from him. The mists were all around him now and the villagers were gone, replaced by rotten corpses sprouting up from the mist, their eyes as blue as those in the distance. 

Bassel approached him from his left side walking on his hind legs. When he was a few feet away from Jon, he spoke in perfect Westerosi: “Wake up!”

Jon bolted upright in a cold sweat, unsure of what was reality and what wasn’t. Moonlight trickled into his room from the window and reminded him that he was in Winterfell, and safe. Jon had night terrors sometimes, but that had been different. It had seemed too real. 

He steadied his breathing before trying to get back to sleep. It would be a long time before he did. The image of those blue eyes were etched in the back of his brain and came alive whenever he closed his own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and upload chapters on a weekly basis now since I have slowed down with my writing a little. I like to have two or three chapters down before I upload here just so I know what to foreshadow or insert before the next chapter :)


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot gets plottier

Jon was munching breakfast with Robb, mulling over the information he discovered about Bloodraven, while reading a history of folklore in the Riverlands he found particularly intriguing.

_ ...it was uncovered and swiftly dealt with by Brynden Rivers and his Raventeeth, who had no mercy for those who would accomplice the pretender. Among those who faced the Hand’s Justice was Lady Danelle Lothston of Harrenhal. She was said to have practiced the Black Arts of blood magic, causing chaos with the small folk. Brynden Rivers had no mind to spare the Lady. He had been integral to defeating the First Blackfyre Rebellion, losing an eye in the process, so perhaps after this second attempt, he made an effort to ensure there would never be a third.  _

_ He beheaded her in her own castle for all to see, leaving her body for the crows and vultures to devour over the coming weeks. He then had local farmers and soldiers hunt down her last heir to ensure her line was ended, offering a hefty reward for his head. What followed next has been the topic of much speculation and debate among the Maesters of the Citadel for the past several decades. _

_ It is not clear how or where Brynden Rivers obtained a dragon egg, but it evidently sent the Crown into a massive amount of debt causing the wrath of King Maekar I. What is clear is that when Brynden left Harrenhal, he left behind an egg apparently lodged into the castle’s own stones. It has been speculated that some sort of magic had been used to set the egg in place, such was the craft and skill which went into placing it. However, it is the opinion of most of those at the Citadel that more mundane, human efforts went into carving out a space and laying the egg there. Many have tried to displace the egg and take it for themselves, but none have so far been able to do so. This may account for where the tales of procephy come from about the egg.  _

_ Other accounts about the new Lords of Harrenhal, tell of Bloodraven warning House Whent of staying loyal to House Targaryen. It is claimed he said he would not pull Harrenhal down as he did Whitewalls, but would instead ensure a vested interest in the Royal House. _

_ Having spoken to the small folk in the area, it is clear that the prophecy entails... _

It was then that Theon burst into the hall. 

“You’re damned mutt,” he exploded, “shit all over the front of my bedroom!”

Sometimes, Jon really despised Theon. Some of the things he’d say or do set him on edge. When he would be studying or practicing swords with Robb, Theon would often pretend he wasn’t there, cutting off his sentences or just keeping his back to him. He didn’t know what else he could have done but been born to deserve this treatment. Robb found him fine, but Theon didn’t ignore Robb or belittle him. It made no matter, though. His Lord Father was fostering him, and they would be rid of him once the King thought it was wise to send him back. Jon heard Theon muttering sometimes about being a hostage, but the way he was treated by his Father, and they way everyone else treated him in the castle, said otherwise. So long as Theon stayed out of his hair, Jon could stand to watch him be miserable, even if it was just the miserable sight of his back. 

That was, until today. 

Jon and Robb looked around the hall to see who he was yelling at. When it was clear it was one of them, Jon broke the silence, “Are you talking about Bassel?”

“I don’t care what his name is! I have shit soaked into my good clothes, and my room is filled by the stench!”

“Well, it couldn’t have been him,” Jon retorted. “Bassel can’t even make it up the stairs, and he knows better than to go in the hallways.”

“He’s right, Theon,” Robb said backing Jon up. “Bassel doesn’t like stairs.”

“Then how is he in our wing of the castle?” He said snidely. “Hmmm? Any answers?”

Jon got up from his seat and walked briskly towards Theon’s bedroom. He reached out to Bassel and found that he was indeed on the second floor, and quite distressed. How had he not noticed before? He supposed he was too preoccupied with his book. Bassel was at the top of the stairs bouncing from one foot to the next with anxiety at the thought of going down. He whined when he felt Jon reach out. 

_ It’s okay, I’ll be right there.  _

When Jon made it to the bottom of the stairs, Theon and Robb were right behind him. Looking up, he saw Bassel’s timid face and he felt stress pouring out of him. Whines were streaming from his mouth like running water. Jon rushed up the stairs to help bring him down thinking calming thoughts all the while. When he reached Bassel, he knelt to try to carry him.

“Aren’t you going to clean my room?” Theon asked in a conceited tone.

“I will after I bring him down.”

“He’ll be fine here by himself while you clean up after your stupid mutt.”

Jon grated his teeth, praying he had the strength to hold himself back. All three were now standing at the top with Bassel, who looked between Jon and the stairs. “It will take barely a moment.”

“The longer it sits there, the longer the smell will linger! I swear you’ll have the same problems I do if I have to deal with this much longer!”

“Are you going to shit in his room?” Robb asked. Jon snorted and became unbalanced in his stance. The tension that had built relaxed a little, and he took his arms off Bassel to steady himself.

Theon’s face twitched, perplexed by Robb’s response.

“W-whatever the case,” Theon continued. “That mutt can get down by himself. See?” And Theon pushed Bassel with his foot down the steps.

Everything happened slowly before Jon’s eyes, but were too quick for him to properly react to. He tried to reach out to catch Bassel before he made contact with the stairs, but his fingers never made contact. Jon was on his knees by the time the first hard blow came to his back. At first he thought Theon had hit something hard down upon him - he lost his breath from the impact. But looking down at Bassel made him realize what had happened: Bassel’s back had landed on the edge of the stairs.  _ Bam! Bam! Thump! Thunk! _ “Woo! Roo! Woo!” Each time Jon felt a punch in the corresponding area: the back, the stomach, the head, the neck. Each time brought him closer to tears. 

“Aaah...” Jon moaned, barely able to breathe again. 

“Jon!” Robb called. “Theon! What did you do?”

“It’s just a stupid dog. It should be able to use stairs…” Theon said, a little less sure of himself now. 

Jon had gotten up while Theon was talking and limped his way down the stairs. His breath slowly coming back to him. When he got to the bottom his lip began to quiver at the scene before him. 

Bassel was unconscious, his front paw twitching ever-so-slightly. “B-Bassel..” Jon asked reaching out to pat him. He could feel his heart beating in his chest while Bloodraven’s word float through his head:  _ Bassel will meet a grim end _ . He couldn’t take his eyes off his friend’s face, the tiny breaths he made with his small mouth. All too suddenly, someone was shaking him out of his daze.

“Jon!” Robb yelled. Jon didn’t see why he was yelling, though. He was very close to his ear. “We should take him to Maester Luwin. Maybe he can help.”

“He’s going to be fine,” Jon said monotonously. “He’s going to be fine.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Robb reassured him, thinking he wasn’t doing so well himself. “Now I’ll carry him. You just follow behind.”

Unnoticed by the two boys, Theon remained at the top of the stairs, clenching his fists. He had acted impulsively and punitively, and knew there was going to be a price to pay for what he’d done. He was angry with this thought, though, since Jon should be the one cleaning up a mess in the first place. Now he was going to have to find someone else to clean it up, and he wasn’t on good terms with the housemaids...

When Robb and Jon had reached Maester Luwin, Bassel was barely breathing. Having looked him over, Luwin determined that there was nothing they could do but be there for him while he passed. The words breezed by Jon. Wasn’t he just reading a book? How had this all happened?

Jon sat on a hard stool staring at Bassel, willing him to wake up. “Please. Please,” he repeated, over and over. Robb tried to interject a few times to ease his mind: “he had a good life. You treated him well,” or “we can find you another dog?” This only made Jon more bitter. Robb didn’t understand.  _ No one _ understood how good and kind and loyal Bassel was. He couldn’t just be replaced. He was a part of Jon and he was a part of him. Bassel couldn’t die. No body Jon knew had died yet. It couldn’t be Bassel. This wasn’t happening. 

It was as if a film had frosted his vision and bared his ears. Jon was oblivious to the commotion in the room, intent upon willing Bassel to heal. To live. This was going so quickly. He was just having breakfast not ten minutes ago when everything changed. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream.

“I’m sorry!” Arya cried, tugging Jon’s sleeve and bringing him back to his senses. “It’s my fault!”She sniffled a little. “I… I brought him up the stairs with me last night to sleep in my bed. When I woke up he had made a mess everywhere and I… I ran away.”

_ That explains how he got up there. _ Jon didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust himself to say anything coherent or meaningful.  _ I guess he couldn’t get down to do his morning business, so he went in the hallway. _ He hugged Arya closer to him in an effort to say that it was okay. He forgave her. It wasn’t her fault, even. 

A few moments passed by when Jon felt a terrible welling-up in his chest. He sucked in air sharply in realization of what it meant: Bassel was dead.

A noise came from his throat which didn’t sound human. Red limned his vision as everything swirled around him. He didn’t remember how he got there, but he was outside in the court yard. Arya, Robb, and Maester Luwin were gone. All that remained in his sight was Greyjoy.

“Theon!” He roared. He wanted to see his face instead of the back of his head before he killed him. 

It was only a matter of seconds before Jon was on him. Despite Theon being older and taller than him, Jon had somehow overpowered and knocked him on his back. Theon never had been good in physical combat, though. 

Jon’s fists were so tight he could feel his nails biting into his palms. His punches were so hard he could feel his flesh breaking each time he made an impact. But he could also feel, and hear, the bones breaking in Theon’s face. That was the sound he wanted to hear. 

Nothing registered outside of this for Jon. Not the guards yelling at him to stop, or Robb yelling at him to stop, or his Lord Father running towards him, yelling at him to stop, or Arya, crying at the entrance, telling him she was sorry. Jon felt the pulpy mix in Theon’s nose, and the warm blood that splashed on his face, and saw red filling up Greyjoy’s mouth. It was what he wanted, but wasn’t enough. 

“ENOUGH!” His Father roared, pulling Jon away from his prize. He landed on his bottom panting from what he had just done. 

All the sounds he had blocked out before suddenly filled his ears.

“By the Gods…”

“What was he..”

“That’s that Bastard…”

“What will Lord Stark…”

“... All that blood!”

Theon lay whimpering on the ground, his face a bloody mess already beginning to swell. 

“Guards! Go get the Maester! And Jon-!”

Jon was already running away from the courtyard. He knew what he did was unacceptable, and didn’t want to suffer the consequences. Theon had  _ killed  _ Bassel. All he did was gave him what he deserved… He knew he would never live this down, though. So he turned towards the stables. 

_ What am I doing? Where am I going? _ He knew the answer deep down, though: his father would never forgive him for bloodying his ward, heir to the Iron Islands.

_ I will be exactly where I need to be to help you in whatever way I can. _

He unhitched the lead for Theon’s white horse and saddled him up. Jon decided if Theon could so easily take his best friend from him, he could take his horse. Rage still flowed through his veins, and his hands were shaky putting the saddle and reins on. 

“That’s… That's not yours…” a stable boy said peering in from the entrance. 

This made Jon angry. He pulled himself up into the saddle and walked the horse towards the boy. “Are you going to stop me, then?”

“I’ll… I’ll tell Lord Stark.”

“Tell him. I’m already in trouble. Stealing a horse is the least of my worries.”

“I..” Jon had already began to ride off before the boy could finish his thought. 

He rode his horse through the streets of the town breathing hard, the pain was so heavy in his chest. He knew where he was going thanks to Bassel’s efforts. He knew who he needed to find. When he turned the corner, he saw Brynden leaning against the door, presumably waiting for him. 

“I’m sorry about-”

“Don’t say it.” Jon gnashed his teeth together. 

“It’s a terrible thing for a skinchanger to lose their companion. I’m probably the only one who knows this for a hundred miles.”

“You know why I’m here, then.”

“Yes,” he said matter of factly. “We should make for the outskirts of town immediately. They should already be looking for you.”

“Fine.”

Jon lead the way out of the town avoiding everyone’s gaze.

“Here we are!” Brynden said when they approached another horse which had been tied up to a fallen log suspended between two other trees. The horse was already saddled and reined with fine black leather. 

Brynden untied the horse and looked about the bushes for a moment or two. 

“Ah! Here.” he exclaimed and bent down to pick something up. He produced two saddle bags filled with supplies along with a bag with clothing inside.

“Is.. Is that your horse and supplies?” Jon asked.

“It appears to be. These are definitely my reins and equipment, and this appears to be the horse I will be riding for some time yet. I must have put her here earlier this morning.”

Jon bit his lip, not fully knowing what he’d set himself up for. It wasn’t too late to turn back and face the consequences. There was at least be a warm bed at the end of today and Robb and Arya to play with. And he could give Bassel…

His chest felt heavy again, and his decision became more resolute. He wanted to be away from this place. He had tried before, but there had still been ties to Winterfell he couldn’t sever. Now that some had been cut, pain enveloped his thoughts about the place he called home.

A sad thought flew through his mind: used _ to call home. _

“You should change clothes and cut your hair shorter. Later on, when we find another village, we can paint that horse black for a while before getting out of range of Winterfell’s hearing.” Bryden announced while getting the gear in order.

“We’re really leaving, then.” Jon said, a little sadly. He had moved so quickly and with such little thought, that he felt almost confused as to how he ended up here. Or perhaps he had hoped that Brynden would have a magical answer to his predicament. Whatever the case, he was a mile from Winterfell and they were pushing south away from it.

“Why, yes. We made it to Castle Cerwyn in three days time with barely a peep out of you. Mind you, we don’t stay there, just pass through.”

Jon numbly began to change out of his attire and into the simpler clothes Brynden had given him behind a tree. He forced himself to think of anything but what had just transpired:  _ roll up the tunic, put your head through, put one arm through, then the other _ . It was easier to think in the immediate present than to think about the past. 

_ Perhaps if I focus on these little things, it won’t hurt so much. _

They chopped his hair shorter and began to ride away, out of the town, out of the forests, when Jon’s mental fortitude started to crack. He turned around to stare at the castle, the only place he knew as home, and began to weep. He missed his father already, he missed Robb, he missed Arya, he missed the babe, he even missed Sansa. Yet his heart ached for Bassel, and he knew he could never out live this wound if he stayed there. 

His nose began to run and he tried to sniffle it into obedience. Brynden, hearing this, turned around atop his horse.

“In all my years of life I’ve been told, and I’ve heard been told, that crying is a damn shame for men to do. Cowardly, even.” Jon blushed and ran his hand across his nose to stop the running. “However, I find that it lets me know who’s human. The ones who cry have something to be crying over, whether that be from love or friendship or comradery. Tears show you had something precious. And the bravest people, I’ve found,” he said more slyly, his eyes connecting with Jon’s. “Ares those who don’t mind looking like cowards.” 

Jon quickly looked away from his gaze, sniffling a little. He was ashamed of not being able to hold eye contact.

Brynden took no notice of it. He simply faced forward, content with the journey before them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! 
> 
> So I have been getting a lot of great feedback in the last couple weeks, and one of the points which has been brought up often is the fact that the story seems to be going really slow, and… I get it. We already know these characters. Many of you have probably been reading about Jon and the Starks for over a decade (maybe even two), so just get on with the main plot already! 
> 
> The plan all along was to take things slowly while he was younger and for the chapters to get progressively darker as he aged. This meant that I would do a slice of life of Jon as he grew up and learned different things with Bloodraven being the weird mentor in the woods, mumbling about this and that. Where the original story starts is when I planned to set things off, so Waymer Royce wouldn’t be dancin’ with no one until Jon was almost 15. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I have decided to move some story points around to see how it plays out. This is a creative-writing-practice-outlet for me, so, though I will stick to what/how I want to write, if things seem to be going too slowly then I don’t really mind changing them to see what happens. This also means, however, that I need to rethink how to get from A>B>C>D. I can tell you with some confidence that part 1 is going to end on or around chapter 12 after reworking events. After that, I may need to do a time jump or… something. Haven’t thought of it yet. Still writing this part.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All around Jon are familiar-and-unfamiliar faces.

The journey south had taken a toll on Jon. He rarely spoke. When he did, it was in short sentences. Barely more than a few words were heard. His mind was just the same: sluggish. He was easily overcome by silence. A few times, he even trailed off mid-sentence, not bothering to complete his thought. Brynden seemed unphased by it. Perhaps it was because he knew what lay around the corner for Jon. 

This day, the two were camped by a small river, not far from the Neck. The water bent and curved around the landscape and flowed quite slowly over large rocks and silt. From where they were, the river widened into a small, oblong lake. The water was cool and clear enough to see the weeds beneath the surface not far from the shore. Jon remembered visiting this place as a child when his father came to visit Moat Cailin. There was plentiful fish in the lake for his men to catch and eat a fresh meal for the first time in a week. Robb had chased him around playing the role of Florian the Fool, while Jon ran full tilt into the water. While he was a strong swimmer in fast flowing water, he hated how the weeds entangled his feet and grasped at him as if they were trying to pull him down into the murky depths. He hadn’t swam after that.

“What type of fish do you say live in these waters?” Brynden asked as he cleaned the hooves of his horse. 

“Bass. Trout. Something like that.” Jon replied simply.

“Want to take a look to see?”

“No.”

“Not in the mood, then?”

“No.”

“Well,” he sighed, placing the hoof down. “Suit yourself.” He went to the water’s edge and sat, crossing his legs. He placed his hands in his lap, palms up, and closed his eyes.

Jon stared, wondering if he was meditating, when suddenly a fish jumped out of the water and into his lap, Brynden’s hands closing around the flying fish. 

“Hungry?”

***

They were a day away from the Twins on horseback when Jon’s stomach began to growl. He sighed, casting his gaze across the landscape. They had eaten for break-fast, but would not stop to eat again until near sundown. Jon was still used to eating whenever he pleased, and it would take some time to adjust to this schedule.

“What’s on your mind, boy?” Brynden asked, a few feet in front.

“I’m hungry, I suppose.”

“Anyone with ears can know that. I’m asking what else is going through your brain.”

Jon stayed silent a while.

“Do I have to pry information out of you? I’ve done it before, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It does not take a genius to know that you’re awfully sad.” Despite the awkward gait of the horses, Brynden’s eyes on him were steady. “You’ve barely said more than a handful of words the past two weeks. Come, speak your mind. I’m frightfully good at keeping secrets.”

Recalling his histories, Jon smiled a little at that. He remained silent, however, owing to the fact that he was still uncertain about this man. He had been quite helpful to Jon, but his motives were still questionable. For all he knew, Brynden could be stealing him away to ransom him back to Winterfell. 

“I know, I’ll tell you a little about myself,” Brynden suggested. “Something that you would never find in a book or scroll, hmm?” Jon nodded his confirmation.

“I resented my father growing up,” he said nonchalantly. Jon’s eyes widened the slightest bit. “He seemed to have loved all his children, bastard and true born a-like, but his mistresses were another matter. I loved my mother dearly. I clung to her robes whenever a cutting remark was said, even if it wasn’t directed at me. She was kind and gentle to anyone who approached her and was well loved by all those at court,” a hint of a smile played on his lips. “And my father disposed of her like he had all his other mistresses.” His voice became heavy, grave.

It had almost flown by Jon that Brynden grew up a bastard. He had been legitimized, of course, something Jon thought all bastards wanted, but had grown up under similar circumstances to himself.

“Aegon IV,” Jon said breaking the silence.”Shouldn’t have taken _ any _ women as mistresses. It’s why he’s called the _ Unworthy _. Or, at least, partly why,” he corrected.

“Men and women do many things they shouldn’t do. Even Eddard Stark, I’m sure, has done things he shouldn’t have done. It’s how they deal with the repercussions of their actions which dictates their _ worthiness _.”

“My Father would always do the right thing.” His voice faltered a little at the end: _though_ _he fathered me..._

“Would he? Then he is a rare find.”

They rode in silence for a fair bit before Brynden asked for Jon’s response. 

“I want to go home,” Jon said in an even tone. “But… But I can’t force myself to turn my horse around.” Brynden nodded his head in understanding. “I miss everyone. I miss Bassel. But I… I… I can’t do it.”

“I felt the same way leaving Kinslanding for the first time. I had people I hated there, sure, but there were more people that I loved and cared for. When I left I thought I would never make it past Blackwater Bay, then Driftmark, then Dragonstone. The next thing I knew I was across the Narrow Sea in Pentos without so much as a thought for home.”

“Why do you think that is?” Jon wanted to know.

“It’s terribly, fatally easy to make children believe they are horrid creatures. It’s not until we get older, and explore more of what the world is, that we realize that maybe those things that had been said to us, were not the truth of the matter. As I travelled further from that place, I came to realize that maybe I can make my own destiny, not live the one preordained for me.”

Jon became silent and sombre in thought. _ Am I the same way? _

After a short time, Brynden pulled his hood even further down his forehead, before slowing down his pace. They came upon a small stream with women standing with their dresses hiked up. They had baskets of clothes on the side of the river and were beating their laundry with boards in a syncopated rhythm. Already cleaned clothes lay on the grass field on the far side of the stream.

“Ladies,” he announced, catching him a few stares. “Is there a village with a Blacksmith nearby? I’m in need of some armour.” A few of the women looked between themselves and the two strangers on horse back.

“Follow the water south,” said a young woman who couldn’t have been five years older than Jon. “It will be at the fork in the river.”

“You have my thanks.”

When they were well away from the women, Jon piped up. “Will we be getting food as well?”

Smirking a little, Brynden responded, “Of course. Food for us, food for the horse, and we’ll arm ourselves to the teeth.”

“Why do we need to arm ourselves?”

“Do you want to learn to fight?”

“Are you going to spare with me?”

By the Seven, no! One small hit on my head, and I won’t be able to use this body anymore! But I can still train you in other ways.” 

Jon felt foolish believing he could spare with Brynden in his current state. He sometimes forgot this wasn’t Brynden himself, but a fragile body he commandeered. 

They came upon the village not long after the lull in conversation. Fields of grain and peas and pastures surrounded the area, allowing Jon to see just how flat everything was around these parts. It was different from the North, with its rolling hills and craggy rock outcroppings. The village itself was a quaint place with a mix of slate and thatch roofs on the buildings giving the area an earthy, grassy smell. Brynden led through the town nodding his head to any who stared, while Jon chose to avoid eye contact with anyone, instead search for a smith sign. They found a blacksmith along the river. A hammer, anvil and hand graced the iron sign. The wooden house was small with a large watermill on the side of the building. At the moment, the mill was at rest.

Brynden knocked on the thick, wooden door. “Hello?” he announced before stepping in.

Jon snuck in behind him after tying the horses up outside on a pole next to a water trough. The room was more spacious than he imagined and the entire left side of the house was open to the river edge. The rushing and trickling of water reverberated around the space. The house was filled with metal objects of all sorts: rakes, scythes, various sizes of gears, nails, hinges, and casting molds for items Jon couldn’t identify. The space was grimy, however. As soon as Jon walked into the room he could smell the fumes of iron and bronze - a metallic fiery scent. He could tell which items were more frequently used by the accumulated oil and soot upon each tool. The scythe had not been used for years, for instance, while the hammer and anvil near the mill had quite frequently.

“One moment, one moment.” A man’s voice said from above them. He thumped across the attic floor and bumbled down a narrow stairwell on the opposite side of the river. “What can I do you for, hmm?” The man had large, meaty arms and an even larger belly. His beard was red with grey strands springing out and he had short hair as if he had recently shaved his head bald. He wore simple, dark clothes, and a smock hung around his waist with black smudges and smears across it.

“I happen to be in the market for some armour.” Brynden said, his accent slightly changing to one commonly heard around the Riverlands.

“Are you, now? You a knight?”

“Indeed.”

“And who abouts do you call yourself, hmm?”

“Ser Rivers.”

“Bastard, hmm?”

“Only by birth.”

“Hmm,” the blacksmith hummed chewing his lip as he thought. “We’ll see about that. How much you got to pay for this armour? What you pay will tell me what I can do.”

“Well, you see," Brynden widened his arms as if to welcome an embrace for his prospects. "I was hoping for a bit of a compromise.”

“Were you, then?” His lip twitched slightly. 

“I was hoping my boy, here, could exchange his labour for payment.”

The Blacksmith's eyes scanned Jon as if he were a horse or pig for auction.

“He looks too scrawny to do any of the work, ‘round here. Might as well have my girl help out.”

“I can… I can work.” Jon protested. He didn’t actually want to. In fact, he was thrown off by Brynden’s offer and quite mad at what he had just done. But being called “scrawny” and “a girl” pushed him into action.

“Please,” Brynden continued. “This is quite important to me. I had an unfortunate accident not so long ago which has left me quite defenseless,” as he spoke, he slowly took his hood off, revealing the crater in his skull. “I need this much more for everyday life than any other knight may think they need it.”

“May the Mother have mercy…” the Blacksmith muttered in abject horror at the ghastly sight before him. He opened and closed his mouth slightly, unsure of what to say. In the end, he decided on: “I think you need to leave before your curse this place.”

Brynden put his hood on and took a bow of acceptance.

As he did so, another man entered the shop.

“Barter! Barter! The handle’s come outta my rake again! What am I payin’ ya for? I can’ave these things happenin’ while I’m tryin’a harvest! Every day counts!”

Jon recognized his face but couldn’t place where he knew him from. A sick feeling in his stomach formed at the thought of being recognized himself. _ Would he send word to my Father? My Father must hate me right now. I can’t go back. _

The man paused, nodding his head to the unexpected patrons of this shop. He paused while looking at Jon. His look said _I know you, from somewhere, don’ I?_ and he smiled with his realization.

Jon opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The smile from the man’s lips fell almost as soon as it appeared. Looking at Barter the Blacksmith, he asked “What’s goin’ on, then?”

“They want to make away like thieves, asking for my services.”

“Do they now? How so?”

“The Bastard Knight is selling out this boy’s labour in exchange for armour.”

“That sounds like a fair deal. Not yourself, Ser?” he asked Brynden.

“I’m more fragile than I look.”

“he has been cursed by the Warrior," Barter's finger pointed at Brynden. "And, he’s,” Barter said eyeing Jon again. “No built to work in a smythe.”

The man looked between Jon and Brynden and Barter, biting his thumb nail. 

“Well how about this: I can't tell you what to do about this knight, here - tha's somethin' ya need a Septon for. I _can _pay you for this armour and the boy can help me around my farm in exchange. Does tha’ sound agreeable?” The man asked looking at Jon.

Jon looked at Brynden before nodding his head in acceptance. He didn’t like it, but he also didn’t want to run away. Or, rather, he couldn’t.

The man went up to Barter and they began to haggle a deal. The man wrestled him down from a towering price, to one which was more tangible. 

“I’m glad,” the man finally said, “That we can agree to somethin’!”

Barter harrumphed, shaking his head, wondering how he let him under price his work. 

“This here’s a good lad,” he said walking over to Jon. “I would’ve gotten the good end of the deal no matter the price of the steel!” He slapped Jon’s back sending Jon a few paces forward.

“Wait,” Barter said eyeing them. “You know the boy?”

“Eh,” the man looked between Jon and Brynden. Jon’s silent plea and Brynden’s death glare gave him everything he needed to know. “No, no I don’t. I jus', erm, know a good lad when I see ‘im.”

Barter narrowed his eyes. “Well, I got your money. I suppose it’s no problem of mine, now.”

The man gathered them up and brought them outside. Jon unhitched their horses and led them along the dirt path back, following the man he had met on the Kingsroad - the man who had bought them steel.

They walked in silence on the path. Tall willows and beech trees began to replace buildings as they entered the countryside.

“What's your name?” Jon finally asked.

“My name’s Mern,” he said, giving Jon a long side eye, his accent having completely disappeared. “Mern XIV of House Gardener.” He looked to Brynden, who's face revealed nothing.

This took Jon aback. _ He’s either lying or he’s delusional. _

“I thought…”

“That House Gardener was extinct?”

Jon nodded his head.

“It might as well be, son. It might as well be.”

Brynden gave the hint of a smile, which went unnoticed by his companions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone so far who has read, given feedback, given kudos, and bookmarked this project. I totally expected this too get swept under the rug, but it's garnered a fair bit of attention and I'm very thankful. 
> 
> Also, I just want to give a heads up that a lot is happening next week for me so I won't be updating until the week after, so the 15th-ish.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just hate it when everyone wants your attention and to get to know you? Ugh. People, am I right?

As Jon guided the horse and oxen duo to plow the fallow field, sweat dripping down his face in the summer sun and he reflected on last evening’s tales Mern had provided:

Brynden had excused himself for bed, while Jon hung around the hearth. Mern had found a spot for himself to sit across from Jon. bringing with him some herbal tea. Mern’s wife, Martha, had brewed it, and Jon was thankful for the warmth and sweetness after the full meal they had eaten. They sat there silently for a while. Both staring alternately at the fire, at the floor, at the other’s face, trying to decide what to ask, where to begin, what needed to be said. It was difficult enough for the adult to start this conversation with a child, but for Jon it was almost impossible. What does one say to a man, a family, who has been cast down from being Lords of Highgarden to peasant farmers? An “I’m sorry” didn’t seem appropriate, but he also couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he stayed silent.

“It’s a tragedy, I’m sure, which cast you away from your home in Winterfell. I won’t ask, if you don’t want to tell. Just know that we know what it’s like to not have a place to call home.” Mern said, his voice thick and sweet like molasses.

Neither made eye contact with the other.

“Thank you. It still hurts to think on it.”

Mern nodded his head. “It’s a grave thing, surviving on your own. You’re lucky you have someone with you.”

Jon inclined his head in agreement.

“Unfortunate about that injury he’s got. Not easy to hide something like that.”

Jon nodded.

Martha and Flora, their daughter, sat at the dinner table. Cleaned and wiped down, it was transformed into a crafting counter, with brown fabric and paint bottles of all colours strewn on top. There was a festival tomorrow afternoon, and Flora wanted to make decorations and costumes for her family to wear. It was Maiden’s Day, and although that might mean Maidens from Noble Houses might pray in a Sept, for Common Folk it meant feasts and games, plays and dances, all for the girls in the village. At the moment, Martha and Flora quietly created smocks, transforming themselves into the Father, Mother, and Maiden.

“What is it you want to ask, Jon?” Mern said, cutting to the chase. There was no irritation in his voice as Jon would have expected, but a tiredness, like he had spent the entire day pushing rocks up a hill only to have them roll back down.

“What…” he began, but decided to rephrase it. “How did House Gardener survive? I thought they died on the Field of Fire.”

“Most did. The main branch was completely extinguished. There was a boy, though, the last King Mern’s nephew, who survived,. That’s who we hail from.”

“No,” Jon protested. “He died from his wounds. I’m sure I read that somewhere. The entirety of House Gardener was consumed by Targaryen fire.”

“It’s rather easy,” Mern sighed. “To convince a great many people that a burned body is someone who they’re not. Besides,” he continued, leaning back in his seat. “No one is going after a nephew who holds no lands or money, has no servants or promised marriages. The story’s been passed down, father to son, for three hundred years: how a loyal knight hid him in his retinue before sending him on his way with nothing but a few coins and the clothes on his back, still fringed on the edges from the fires. How he bought himself pen and quill and wrote everything he knew. Everything he loved and hated and wished for. How he had to stay hidden but spry: for the time to take back what was his would come at any moment. A foolish thought. He never emerged from hiding. He never gained back his lands or titles or money. All he’s done was pass down this legacy of defeat, of vengeance, of sorrow, and ghostly dreams.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Jon asked. He was quite confused by Mern’s forthcoming's.

“Because,” he said looking down at his hands. “I feel like we have a connection here which is hard to come by. You: the Bastard of Winterfell, without a name to call your own. I: the exiled Lord, without lands. Both with little luck in life. And I trust you can keep a secret, since you are keeping one yourself.”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows. _ Would someone really tell me something over a connection like this? _

“Anyways, who else can I tell? My father was always adamant to never tell anyone except my Lady and my Heir. He was adamant about a great many other things, too: _ keep our heirloom secret, and pass it down when you feel the time is right. Find yerself a woman who reads and writes. Ensure you have yerself a boy to pass the Gardener name down. _” His voice dropped a few decibels to characterize his father. “Well, I burned that book when he died.” Jon’s eyes widened. “I did find myself a Lady who reads and writes, mind you, but I’ll not have myself a boy. Our name ends with me.”

It was then that Jon empathized with this man wholly. He knew the feeling of not wanting to father children, to not pass on his bastardy to others. But...

“I… I understand some of it, but why did you burn your heirloom?”

“The heirloom was the book my ancestor wrote. It caused nothing but resentment and longing in my father for things we could never have. He wanted me to continue to resent and long for these things, but I won’t. I would rather live my own life than that of a dead man’s.”

Jon was struck by his words. He imagined that Mern had thought about this long and hard, but the weight of what he had done would affect everyone in his lineage for the rest of eternity.

“You could have kept it to-”

“No. There’s no keeping these things. One man will see a hopeless fool who’ll never return his House to glory, while another will see a wronged martyr, and will stop at nothing to see House Tyrell fall. There’s no controlling how my grandson, or great grandson, or great-great grandson will interpret it. I can only control the here and now, and I chose to end this futile struggle to the top.”

“You decided to destroy the past then?”

“In a sense, yes. If our ancestor doesn’t have a way to speak to us, then he might as well have died of those wounds. Now, there’s no reason to tell my daughter - or a son - to hate; to hold their nose up towards the common folk, despite us being one of them anyway; to never find a decent way to make money, since that’s not what Lords do. It might as well have been a fever dream of my father’s that we were Lords though, as he never did a lordly thing in his life.”

Jon saw some wisdom in what he said, but he still didn’t agree. “I guess I…” Jon began. It was difficult for him to find words for what he was feeling. “I would have wanted to know. I know I’m a Stark, and I’m proud to be a Stark, even though I know I’ll never have the name, or holds lands, or… or… But I’ve always wanted to know who my mother was and my Lord Father would never say, so I would always imagine her to be Lady at best, or a whore at worst. I guess it’s the unknown which is the worst feeling for me. I don’t know who she is, and that’s worse than knowing I’ll never be a Stark.”

Mern smiled sadly at him. “You’re quite intelligent, son, but I don’t mean to have my family teased by this knowledge. Flora will know, but then there will be no proof in the future. No name. Only conjecture and hearsay.”

“Wars have been fought on less.” Jon commented, thinking back on his histories.

“True. But we don’t have an army, or a dragon.”

***

The humidity was almost unbearable as Jon made his last walk across the field for the day. He had never anticipated how humidity could factor into how comfortable the weather could be. He was sure he had spent summers of this heat up in the North, but he had never been this soaked to the bone in his own sweat from it. 

The horse and oxen were becoming irate from his handling, and flies buzzed about the animals causing more stops and halts throughout the day than Jon had predicted. Maiden’s Day festivities were being held in the village that evening, and Jon wanted to see what it was all about.

He walked down a path between fields which was adjacent to the village. He could already see people filling in from farms and households outside the centre. Men and Women were dressed up in costumes carrying flowers in baskets, pockets and hands, while young girls dressed in their finest clothes and eagerly awaited the floral presents and prizes.

He had been told that during the festival, young girls and maidens, dressed up in fine clothes and tried their best to embody the Maiden aspect of the Seven. She could go up to a “Mother” or a “Father” and ask for their blessing and a favour to keep their “good” name. Most would give the girls flowers for them to make into a garland. The more flowers a girl had, it was said the greater her virtue was. Usually, if a girl’s virtue had been besmirched, she would not participate. If she did, she would not receive flowers and everyone would know her to no longer be a maiden.

As Jon drove the horse and oxen past the village, back to Mern’s farm, he spotted a girl walking back and forth, back and forth outside a house along the way. She stood at the far end of a long dirt path and had long, auburn hair pinned up into a large bun, and was unmistakably the person who pointed Jon and Brynden in the right direction the other day. In her hands was a spool of wool, her right hand pulling backwards and forwards, left and right, while her left spun a giant wheel whenever she walked towards it. She hummed a song Jon didn’t recognize and wiped sweat from her forehead when she paused to catch her breath.

Jon wanted to say something to her. He had never really had this urge to do something like this before, and he was surprised when he found himself having walked towards her.

She spotted him down the lane and stopped what she was doing, looking just as confused as Jon was about why he was there.

“Are you…” Jon began, not knowing what he wanted to ask her.

“Am I…?” the girl queried back.

“Are you going to the festival?”

The girl looked at the wheel, to her hands, to Jon and said, “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Oh.” Jon was a little embarrassed at his forwardness, and began to walk back towards Mern’s. The girl bit her lip, curious about who had spoken to her, but quickly began to spin again once he was out of sight.

_ I’m so stupid. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have asked her that. _

Putting the oxen and horse back in the barn, he began to think over his interaction a few more times. _ Maybe she was sad that she couldn’t go? Maybe she does want to go and me asking her that question only made her more sad. _

The more he thought about it, the more he knew he had to do something to rectify the situation. 

Before leaving to go back into town, Jon leapt up the steps to the second floor to find Brynden’s body. Brynden had told Mern and his family that he was indeed gravely ill and would be in bed more days than not, but Jon always tried his best to make sure no one came across the staring, lifeless body of Brynden’s. He opened the door gently, asking after Brynden. When he got no response, he slipped into the room. 

Brynden’s body was propped up with goose feather pillows and his eyes were wide open. Jon had seen this a few times before, but it still unnerved him to see eyes so dead, but still alive like that. He quickly went to close his eyelids and pull his hood more fully over his head. He left the room with as much haste.

On the way back to the village, he spotted some flowers on the road. He didn’t know what type they were, but he thought they looked pretty so he picked them with the intention of giving them to that girl as an apology. 

He nearly ran back to the farm house as adrenaline pumped through his veins. He didn’t know why he felt so anxious, he had never cared about a girl’s opinion before, but he really didn’t want her to be upset.

“I,” Jon stammered. “I brought you something to say sorry,” he brought the flowers in front of him, intent for her to take them despite the fact that she was still several feet away.

The girl with the auburn hair paused her work, looking at the flowers he held out. The wheel spun to a halt.

“I hear you’re not from around here,” she said as a fact.

“No.”

“Do you know what those flowers mean today?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t got flowers on Maiden's Day for a while now.”

“Should you not?” Jon asked confused

“I think I should.”

“Then will you take them?”

The girl tilted her head to the left, biting her lip in thought. 

“I think I will take them,” she walked towards Jon after placing her spindle down. “I’ve always loved daffodils, anyways.” She took the bundle of flowers in both her hands and smelled what little aroma there was of the yellow daffodils. “Thank you, these are very nice.”

Jon smiled. He finally got to see her up close and she was quite lovely to look upon. She had a very pronounced V on her upper lip and large, hazel eyes with a smattering of freckles beneath them on her cheeks. Her skin wasn’t as fair as some ladies Jon had met. Angry red marks spotted her forehead and cheeks, but it was not enough to mar the warmth she exuded when she smiled back at him.

“My name’s Jenny.”

“Jon,” he blurted out.

Smiling a little, she continued,“Well Jon, if you want to wait a while, you can walk me to town. I just need to finish this spool, then I’ll call it a day.”

Jon had told Mern that he would try to find him and his family as soon as he was done plowing, but, he supposed, they could wait a few minutes.

He found a rock wall to sit on while he waited. He told himself that it was the proper thing to do to accompany her.

“How long does this take?” He asked.

“I’m here from sun-up to sun-down usually. You can make a lot of spools of yarn with all this wool, but it takes forever to do.” She spoke as she walked and flew her hands in front of herself; spinning and pulling and motioning left and right. “Have you never seen this done before?”

“No... I mean I have, but I usually only see the end spool.”

“Well those spools take a lot of time to make. Maybe one was even made by me.” She added, smiling.

Jon doubted anything she made would have come to Winterfell, but he smiled back at her anyway.

“Did you and your father travel from the North to get here?”

“Who? Oh, he’s not my father.”

“Sorry, I just assumed…”

“He’s more like... teaching me to fight, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It’s been a long time since he’s fought.”

“He didn’t look that old.”

“He’s older than he looks.”

Jenny, looked back at him, brows furrowed. “I suppose that’s a fine line of work to be in. Hedge Knights can make a few coins here and there.”

“I wouldn’t be a knight.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” he trailed off. He tried to carry the conversation away from where they had come from, but he ended up right back to the beginning. “Because he’s not a very good knight.”

She smiled again. “Fine, keep your secrets.”

The spinning jangle of the metal wheel filled the air as she finished her current spool. She walked closer towards the wool and fixed the end off, completing her project. “I’m done for now.” Jenny placed her spool on top of a basket full of unspun wool, ran inside the house with it, and came out empty handed.

They walked side-by-side down the road to the town. All the while Jenny used her finger nails to slice holes in the stems of the flowers, inserting a stem from another into, on and on, until it looked like a circle.

“There, I can finally show my face again.” 

“Were you not able before?”

“No. I was, but I’ve just been...busy nowadays.”

Jon wasn’t sure he should press this issue, so he stayed silent.

“Do you have any more flowers to give to other girls?” Jenny asked, trying to fill the void between them.

“No, just those ones.”

“Oh, I can give some back if you-”

“No, it’s fine. I picked those for you, anyway.” Jon couldn’t say exactly why, but he suddenly flushed red. What he said might have been too forward, even though it was given for Maiden’s Day.

“Thank you.” She turned her head away to keep him from seeing her grin.

“Does your family raise sheep?” Jon asked, trying to move past the awkward moment.

“Ah, no, we buy the wool from sheep farmers, clean it up and make it ready to sell. I’m the spinster and my brothers clean the wool and try to sell it.” As she spoke, she settled the ring of flowers upon the crown of her head.

“What about your parents?”

“Well… My father died a few years ago, so my brother is the head of the family, and my mother… doesn’t work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.” She smiled sadly at him. “Why doesn’t your mother help, though? Is she sick?”

“She… It’s hard to explain.”

“Okay.” Jon didn’t press the issue again. It was clearly making her agitated. Her fingers were now grasping at her dress and smock. 

Jon had never spoken to a girl outside of his family for any extended amount of time before now, and thought it was going exceedingly poorly. He knew if she were a lady, it would not have been appropriate for them to be alone together. That had always worked for Jon. Would this have been acceptable with the Common Folk to walk with her? Or would he be reproached for doing so?

He knew why a girl and boy shouldn’t be alone together: the girl might get pregnant. But why they would do such a thing without wanting to conceive a child in the first place was beyond Jon. _ Why would my Father have had me, if I wasn’t wanted? _

He stayed silent and sullen at the thought for the rest of the walk. The pair looking anxious and unenthused as the colours and laughter and joy exploded around them.

“Jenny! You’re here!” One girl who looked around her age exclaimed. “Come! Tom has been giving out these lovely roses of all colours!” She grasped Jenny’s hand.

“I’ll see you later?” Jenny asked, as she was dragged away.

“Alright.”

Now that Jon was alone, he looked about the scene. Adults were dressed up as an Aspect of the Seven, everyone of them carrying a bundle of flowers to give out. Their outfits were colourful, but simple. It was clear the colour on them was not dyed to last, but for this one occasion. On the far side of the village center was a make-shift stage. Boxes had been pushed together to give the performers height for an audience to see. He could hear a man speaking on top of the stage, but couldn’t tell what he was saying. ON the other end of the center was a clearing for young girls to dance together. He noted that boys and men stayed far away from that area and the girls seemed to be guarded by their mothers. Through all this, Jon tried to spy the Gardeners, but it was difficult when most men wore beards and held scales and flowers in their hands.

At last he recognized Flora, which lead him to her parents. 

“Jon! Done at last, I see?” His accent was thick again. Jon had forgotten to ask him last night why he pretended to have an accent. It seemed silly now that he knew it wasn’t real.

“Yes, I walked Jenny over as well on my way here,” he said, trying to sound innocent to gauge his reaction.

“Oh? Splendid, we haven’t seen her for a while.” Mern clapped him on the back, making Jon stumbled forward a foot. “Artum!” Mern yelled across the centre. “Artum! Come here! This is the boy I was telling you about!”

A man no older than Mern approached the group wearing an almost identical costume to every other adult male there. “Ah, you’re the boy who’s been working hard all day, hmm?”

“Er, yes ser.”

“Ha! I like your manners, boy! Say, would you be able to help me around the farm in the next couple days? I need help dispersing seed. I’ll pay for your time of course. It’s just, young men with free time are hard to come by around here. I only have the one myself, and he’s usually busy with the livestock. What do ya say?”

“I… er… I… If Mern-”

“After the next two days, I can give you time to help Artum. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Then that’s all settled!”

The rest of the evening was quite enjoyable, and Jon watched as different persons from the village performed various stories about the Seven, most of them to do with the Maiden or young girls. A Septon was there to gave his blessing to the performances and give sermons between each of the stories. Jon couldn’t understand how all the dozens of people here could sit still and listen to what he said. It was monotonous and boring. He was still content with the Old Gods, if they were content with him.

At the end of the evening, when everyone began to light torches to find their way back home, Jon spotted Jenny. She waved and ran over to him, her face much changed since he last saw her. She had added several more flowers to her crown and her cheeks were flushed from dancing.

“Thank you,” she said, breathless. “Thank you for bringing me out.” She grasped both his hands and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

Jon, having never experienced this sort of affection before, stood motionless after this happened, mouth agape. He had been about to say a soft “no worries” or “my pleasure” to her, but her lips landed on him faster than he could speak.

Mern, seeing this, grinned and patted him on the back, physically pushing him out of his reverie. “Seems you have an admirer.”

He walked home with them silently, embarrassed about what had happened.

***

The next few weeks gave Jon a good understanding of what life was like for the Common Folk. It wasn’t that he had no idea what they did day to day, but reading and hearing about it was quite different than experiencing it for himself. Once he had finished helping Artum seed his fields, a neighbour had wanted him to help with their sheep, then another neighbour had wanted him to help in their dairy, and then the next wanted help with their pigs. On and on it went. By the end of most days, Jon was dead asleep once his head hit his pillow. He had wanted to say “no” to some of the request, but Mern and Brynden had a way of pushing him back towards saying “yes”. 

Brynden, during this time, spent his days between bed - unconscious - and the back field behind Mern’s house shooting arrows. He declared he needed to train his body up again to be any good in the future. Jon saw only a little progress, however. His body was frail and thin and it took a huge amount of effort to draw back on a composite bow, let alone a long bow. 

Brynden often encouraged Jon to begin skinchanging again. There were a great many things he wanted Jon to see and do and seeing through the eyes of a bird or a fox were the best methods to do so. But Jon’s heart still wasn’t in it yet. He could have, he supposed, tried to push his mind into a bird, but he felt like that would have been betraying Bassel’s memory. _ I will do it when I want to do it _. He concluded. Brynden grumbled whenever he stood his ground.

Two months had come and past, before Brynden’s armour was done. There was also a surprise for Jon when the Blacksmith presented his final result.

“For you, lad,” Barter said, handing him live steel.

“This… This is sharp?” Jon asked dumbly. He thought he would be getting a practice blade, not something so deadly.

Barter snorted in amusement. “Sure is. A thank you would be nice.”

“Th-thank you,” Jon stammered. 

“You’re welcome,” Mern said behind him. Jon turned to look at his benefactor. “I had to convince ‘im over the last couple-a-days to make it good and sharp. ‘Eard it was yer birthday, afterall, so I thought’it was appropriate.”

_ That’s right, last week. _ Jon had completely forgotten about his birthday from all the work he had been doing. _ I’m 13 now. Three years until I’m of majority… Brynden must have said something... _

“Thank you,” he said again.

Brynden, having turned away, took his hood off, placed a cap upon his head and gingerly placed his helmet on top of that. He turned back, and grinned at Jon. His plate helmet had a fin down the centre like a mountain ridge and there was fine detailing on the sides. Jon thought it might have been a raven or some bird in the brief moment the side was in his view. “How does the sword feel?”

“G-good, I guess.” He waved it around in the air, trying not to hit anything. It wasn’t like any real sword Jon had seen before. It was short owing to Jon’s height and youth, but still had the long hilt one would see on a two-handed sword. Jon supposed a practice blade was sharpened for him to use. Barter handed him a leather scabbard, “muttering about not killin’ anythin’” and Jon gently put the sword away despite wanting to try it out on something. He was excited to begin practicing with a sword again, and the thought of it being live steel made him all the more enthused to start learning. 

_ Only this time, I have no one to practice against… _ The memory of Robb and him practicing in Winterfell’s yard kept his hand still from prying his gift back out.

Brynden and Jon made their way out of the Blacksmith’s shop and towards their horses, Mern and Barter following behind them.

“Well,” Barter groaned. “I can’t say it was a pleasure, but thanks for the business.” He shook hands with Brynden, and then with Mern after.

“Thank you,” Jon told Mern again. He was given so much by this man: food shelter, warmth, and a sword. He didn’t know what to say, so he said the only thing he knew could communicate those feelings.

“I should be thankin’ you, son. You’ve helped out a lot around this place. I know a few others too, who’ll be missin’ your presence.”

Not knowing how to handle so much affection, Jon said “thank you” again.

Mern grinned and nodded his head at him.

Brynden had gotten on his horse and rode up next to Jon. “We should be going if we want to be south of the Fork by sunset,” he said casually. “I thank you for your hospitality, Mern, and your charity. There are too few men like you in the world.”

“Glad to help. You two make for interesting guests, anyway.”

Jon climbed up onto his horse and began to ride down the road alongside Brynden.

“Where are we going now?”

“South, south and south,” he replied.

“Anywhere in particular?”

“Not at this moment.”

Jon sighed in frustration and fell in behind Brynden in a slow trot. He heard footsteps and saw a breathless figure standing on the side of the path in front of them. Her dress swirled freely around her in the gentle breeze of the morning.

“Are you leaving?” Jenny yelled at them.

Jon looked to Brynden. When he remained silent, he responded.

“Yes.”

“I knew you would but didn’t think it would happen for a long while. Will you come back?” By now Jon had ridden up to her and paused beside her, noticing her feet were bare and her hair disheveled. 

Before Jon could respond, Brynden cut him off “The future holds a great many things, my dear.” His voice held such ice, that Jon was taken aback. Jenny merely looked startled by his response, as if she was surprised he could talk at all.

“Well, I wanted to give you this before you left,” she said taking a roll of fabric out of her pocket. “I was going to darn a sword into it for you to put on your hilt after I heard what Barter was doing, but… well I didn’t finish it.” She held out the fabric to him. There on the black spun wool, stood a red hilt and base of a sword. The darning was tiny. One thread wove through the fabric as if it had been created as one original piece, and the detail was splendid. “I just wanted to say thank you for... for the flowers,” she said looking away from him.

“This is.. I can’t…” Jon began.

“You can, and maybe if you come back… I can finish it for you.”

Jon looked into her eyes. They were round and soft and lovely.

“Yes.”

“Alright. Alright. Time to get going,” Brynden said, annoyance clear in his voice.

Jon gave one last smile to her before going after Brynden. Jenny waved after them.

“There are some people,” Brynden muttered to him. “You should stay away from.”

“Who?” Jon asked incredulously. “Her?”

“Yes her,” he shook his head, letting a long sigh out. “I had hoped to keep you busy enough, but she found a way to get to you after all,” he muttered.

“What are you talking about? What does it matter?”

“A great many lives depend on it.”

Brynden refused to elaborate.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you stare deeply in through the Owl, the owl starts talking smack about you.  
Also,  
Our protagonists come to a crossroads in their adventure and there will be no turning back.

A week was spent riding along the Green Fork down towards where the river turned into the Trident. Neither person was in a hurry to get to any particular place, and the time spent after setting up their camp was useful for Jon to get accustomed to the new sword he’d been given. He had bought himself a whet stone from a small village near the King’s Road, but decided to cut the air rather than practice on wood. His evenings by the fire sharpening his sword were frivolous, but gave his hands something to do.

“You knew Duncan the Tall. Don’t you have any suggestions for me?” Jon had asked one evening as his hand guided the whet stone down the length of his sword.

“Yes, find someone you can practice against.”

“You can’t verbally help me?”

“No. Despite the fact that I have armour now, I would rather not risk my wellbeing at the moment for swordplay. I can help you with your skinchanging, however. That is important to keep up.”

Jon scowled at him. Ignoring the last bit, he commented, “It would be sword _ practice _ not _ play _.”

“I haven’t held a sword in eons. Find someone better to teach you.”

Jon harrumphed. “We’d have to find a hedge knight or a castle for that, though.”

“Then let’s do that.”

That evening Jon was tossing and turning, eager to learn how to properly handle a sword. He tried to imagine the ways in which he might have to pull his sword out to use it: _ maybe a robber will try to steal our things and I’d have to ward them off, or maybe I’d have to save some maiden at the top of a tower… _

“If you insist on not sleeping, boy,” he heard Brynden say from his bed. “Then you should at least do as I ask and practice your skinchanging.”

Having been caught off guard, Jon didn’t immediately respond. He took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I just… I have been,” he lied fruitlessly.

Jon heard Brynden sigh from behind the drapes. In the next moment he felt a cold, unpleasant snap in his head like he had felt a few times before.

_ The ground was illuminated by the Orb in the sky, the leaves and grasses shifting and shimmering from its glow. He scanned his surroundings, circling his head around to find his next meal, his claws aching for a warm body to dig into. For the time being, he waited, silently, for movement to catch his eye, for something to slip-up. _

_ Grass rustled. A leaf flipped over. There were faint scurrying sounds of tiny feet. He narrowed in on the sound, on the movement, slowly spreading his wings, stretching his muscles, taking flight. _

_ He was off. _

_ Too quickly, he had the mouse in his talons. He began to pick apart the mouse as it still quietly squealed for mercy - for help. Mercy came in the form of death. _

When the owl was satiated, Jon was jolted by something that had never happened before.

_ Why are you here, with me? _Said a voice that was neither Jon’s nor Brynden’s.

_ What? _

_ Why, _ the voice said, more aggravated this time _ . Are you here? This place is full. There is no room for you. _

_ I’m sorry? _Jon asked confused. One moment he was in his bed, the next he was trying to acclimate himself to this new scenario, and now it seemed like… he wasn’t alone.

_ I do not appreciate when you human skinwalkers enter my head like this. It is beyond conscionable that I would step aside for you to run amuck. Please do me the courtesy of leaving, I am in no mood this night to amuse you. _

_ I - I didn’t know, I’m sorry. _

_ Didn’t know? You didn’t know it was an unpleasant experience for a creature to lose control of their body? _

_ I- _

_ Leave. I never want to feel your presence again, or I shall do to you what I’ve done to this mouse. _

Jon was quickly brought back to himself, springing straight up in his bed.

“That owl!” Jon nearly yelled. “He- he spoke to me!”

He heard Brynden chuckling quietly on the other side of dying fire. “That was Archimeadys. He was once a human, but now lives his second life as an owl.”

“Second life?” Jon said, voicing his thoughts. The rush he felt from skinchanging left him quickly, like blood draining from his head. He was becoming too tired to think through what he wanted to say. “Why did you send me to him if you knew it would annoy him?”

“Oh, he needs a good stirring every once and awhile to remind him that he’s human and not, in fact, an owl.”

“How do you mean?”

“He has died as a human, but lives on through his owl.”

“Is that what will happen to me if I die, then?” Jon said, with a yawn. As a thirteen-year-old, he had had experience with death, but was not yet concerned for his own mortality. “If he died” was similar to saying “if he married”, a far off, frivolous notion that was difficult to truly grasp.

“Only if you find a creature to bond with.”

“Like Bassal?” Jon asked sadly. It had been a few months and the pain had dulled, but it was still there nonetheless. 

“Yes, like Bassal.”

“Hmmm,” he acknowledged. Jon had begun to feel the day’s worth of hard riding and skinchanging weighing down upon him. 

“Do you have anymore questions for me?” Brynden asked, but Jon was already asleep, his breathing heavy and monotonous.

“You’ll get to know Archimeadys better,” he whispered after Jon. “Once you know yourself better.”

***

The next afternoon, they dragged themselves into the Inn at the Crossroads, despite Jon’s aversion to it. He wanted to keep out of any place with high traffic and a chance at getting recognized, but Brynden dissuaded those worries.

“I wouldn’t let that happen. At least,” he grinned, “not right now.”

They entered the Inn asking for a room and a warm meal. The Inn smelled wonderful. There must have been a roast of some sort sizzling in the kitchen which filled the entirety of the building, making Jon’s mouth water. They found their room and stored their belongings away behind a lock, and came back down for dinner. Brynden was dressed in plain garb, but kept his helmet firmly upon his head. Jon kept his sword close as well. He didn’t have any armour himself, and began to feel naked without the sword at his side. His scabbard was now adorned with the small piece of cloth Jenny had gifted him. He had pinned it to the leather casing and he thought it was a nice, colourful addition.

“Would it be a good idea to get a bath drawn, here?” Jon asked as they sat down at a table. The Inn keeper had promised their food would come in a few minutes, and Jon was eager to take his weight off his feet and eat some decent food. They both placed their belongings beside them and sank back into the wooden bench.

“Want to smell good for something?” 

Jon scowled at that. “No, I just want to get the dirt off me from this past week.”

“It’s your money, boy. Do with it as you like.”

“But doesn’t this have to last a while?”

“Perhaps, but I can guarantee you won’t regret taking a bath three weeks from now.”

“What happens three weeks from now?”

“Many things will change for us.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t say, or else they might not come to pass.”

Jon scowled again. He was sure if he had some food in his stomach, he wouldn’t have been this aggrieved with Brynden.

“You’re always so cryptic. It’s a wonder how anyone can stand your guidance.”

“I believe I’d be angry with myself, too, if I were you.”

“So why don’t you just tell me?”

“Some things are best left unsaid. Some things are best kept secret. I once told a boy his future, and he was fretful and anxious for the entirety of that time.”

“You’re speaking about me.”

He ignored Jon’s statement. “Humans are not meant to know their future - good or bad. It’s beyond your capacity to understand, or act. Sometimes a person will learn a good thing about their future, but then act in a certain way which is detrimental to have that “good thing” occur. Other times, a person will learn of a terrible fate and try desperately to avoid it, only to have it occur anyway. Do you understand?”

Jon grumbled a yes, despite not really understanding. This was one of those times when an adult expected a child to stop asking questions, not necessarily understand the topic.

“If I thought it would be in anyway helpful for you to know of your future, I would of course tell you, but I fear it would be terribly, terribly unhelpful at the present moment.”

“Do you even regard yourself as _ human _,” Jon whispered the last part. “You seem to speak with low regard for… people.”

“I don’t know if I would classify myself anymore as _ human _ ,” he said with little regard for anyone overhearing. “I live quite illogically to how you experience the world and I’ve done it so many times… No, I don’t think I would call myself _ human _. Not anymore.”

Jon snorted from annoyance. “Well that explains your illogical behaviour.”

“When have I acted illogically with you?”

“Not with me, but in the past.”

“My past or your past?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “My past, I suppose, but this was before I was born.”

“Well. Out with it.”

“Why would you,” Jon leaned in closer. “_ Execute Aenys Blackfyre _,” he whispered, flicking his eyes around the room. “If you knew it would lead to you being sent to the Wall?”

“He was a threat to my family. Do you need more of an explanation?”

“Yes,” Jon said, his eyes firm on Brynden’s.

“Think back to what Mern told you about his heritage. How some of his ancestors yearned to take back Highgarden, while he himself, does not. Aenys would have had children, who would have children, who would have children. There only needs to be one Blackfyre that wants to take the Throne for there to be rebellion and war in Westeros. The Gardeners did not have an army, but the Blackfyres will always have the Golden Company at their back. If they had the good graces of any of the Free Cities or the Iron Bank, then there would be a mess on any ruler’s hands.”

“Could you have not castrated or imprisoned him?”

“Ha!” Brynden laughed. Jon believed it must have been the first time he had ever heard such a thing. “I suppose I could have kept him shackled and cut, but there are always those who think themselves martyrs and would fight tooth and nail to see him freed. No. Death is more final.”

“You would do that all over again despite knowing you’ll end up in the Night’s Watch?”

“You speak of it as though it’s a desolate place.”

“Is it not?”

“It, indeed, has become so, but it was quite lively while I have been there.”

The bar maiden came by and placed plates of food in front of them. A heap of mashed potatoes with green onion sprinkled through and a side of roasted beef, covered in gravy, adorned their plates. Roasted carrots and peas and brussel sprouts sat around the rim of the entree as a colourful border. 

Jon immediately dug into his meal. He hadn’t eaten since break-fast and he had been smelling the beef roast since they had entered the Inn. He was so absorbed in eating, that he had finished his plate before Brynden had gotten through half of his own. Jon sat, waiting and staring, for Brynden to be done. He wanted to ask more questions, but felt he should wait until he could properly talk about it. Brynden was wiping his mouth before Jon continued.

“What about the egg? That was illogical,” he nearly spat out.

“Which egg? Aegon?”

“No, the dragon egg at Harrenhal. Why would you put the Crown into debt to place an egg in a stone there?”

Brynden smiled. It was not like any other smile Jon had seen from him before. It was if he wasn’t smiling at Jon at all, but at a memory - something humorous and pleasant. His teeth even appeared from behind his lips. The moment passed quickly though, and he appeared composed once again.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said with only a hint of amusement. “What you’re talking about.”

“Of course you must!” Jon protested, his annoyance with Brynden beginning to rise again.

“In all my lifetimes, I have never placed an egg in a stone. That does sound quite illogical.”

“But you must know why!”

“Even if I did, I would not tell you.” Brynden confirmed, his voice steady with authority. He looked away from Jon, towards the window. It was dark outside and not much could be seen past the dim glow of the rushlight lamps outside. Jon didn’t think he was really looking at anything which could presently be seen, though.

“I would be interested to see this egg, however,” he said, turning back to face Jon. “it’s in a stone, you say? I would love to know how this was accomplished.”

“Some say, you used magic. Others think you’re just an accomplished stonemason.”

“I am capable of many things; stonemasonry is not one of them.” Brynden was clearly amused by this conversation. An underlying euphoria had taken hold of him and it was difficult to conceal his feelings.

“So it was magic,” Jon confirmed.

“Magic is not an easy thing to handle. I only know of one person who is accomplished at it, and even she has difficulty grasping it.”

“Then how was it done?”

“Shall we see for ourselves?”

Jon nodded his approval.

“We can even find you a sword master to train you up.”

Jon was more than pleased by the result of the conversation.

Their table was cleaned off, and the two were gathering their things before another topic popped into Jon’s head. Brynden was standing over him, waiting for Jon to get up when he asked him a question.

“I’ve been thinking for a while now, about what you said to me back in Winterfell.”

“Oh?”

“How you said you promised someone to watch over me.”

“Yes.”

“And you say you would do anything for your family.”

“Yes.”

“Do we meet,” he began before leaning closer to him and whispering, “_ Viserys and Daenerys in the future _?”

Brynden remained silent, raising an eyebrow at his question.

“Have you not been paying attention to a thing I’ve said? Come. Pack your things up, it’s time to rest. We’ll need all our energy for the morrow.”

Troubled by his lack of response, Jon did as he was told and followed after Brynden. The room they were provided with had a large framed bed with drawn curtains and a smaller, single bed in the corner. On the opposite side of the room was a fireplace, grimmy with soot and coal. The room smelled of dust and wet birch wood.

They made themselves ready for bed and Brynden closed the curtains to give each of them privacy. Jon was left in his bed wondering after everything they had spoken about. 

Was it possible that he betrays his Father in the future? Jon couldn’t imagine a scenario where he ever would. It was true that he had run away from Winterfell, but joining forces with the Mad King’s children seemed… unspeakable. 

_ I would never do that to my family _. Jon had done a lot of things, but he would never want to betray what the Starks stood for, or the Kingdom his family had fought and died for. 

_ My grandfather, uncle, and aunt all died thanks to their father and brother. I will not help them, no matter the circumstances. _

An errant thought floated through his mind: _ Bloodraven has killed others for having similar thoughts _. The thought of dying by this man’s hands was disconcerting, especially with how much he had helped him in the past couple months.

_ Does he want to restore Viserys to the throne? Why is he not helping his grand nephew, then? _

Secrets. Wars. Betrayal. Death. Is this what his future held? What was Brynden here for? What was he, himself, going to do?

The more he thought on these matters, the more he became convinced he was being set up for something. What it was, though, escaped him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys again for all the kudos and comments - and simply eyes - on this story! It really keeps me going and I appreciate it!


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mothers, am I right?

Harrenhal was like no other castle Jon had seen. Five immense towers stood before him, some as thick as the inner keep of Winterfell, Jon thought. The tops, of course, showed the castle’s history. One tower was crumbling from the top, as though a large child had smashed it. The two tallest towers were warped and melted, as though they were made of wax, not stone. A thin bridge connected them together. It was so high up that Jon was sure any slight wind would push off an unlucky passerby. From afar, the castle seemed uninhabited; the black dots which were invariably birds flew in and out of the tops of the towers and Jon could make out faint hints of green and brown, suggesting flora had crept in and made a home. He wondered after Harren, the originator of the castle, and who or what he had in his household for this size of castle to be necessary.

_ Or perhaps it was his ego which needed the space. _

“Prepare to be scrutinized,” Brynden mumbled towards Jon. He had been scrutinized his entire life. Jon thought anything he faced here would be relatively easy. “Call me “Ser”, and act as though you’re my proper squire.”

Jon agreed. It wasn’t that difficult to give respect to Brynden, especially since he was a legitimized bastard of a King. It also helped when the name everyone else called him was “Lord Bloodraven”.

“I shall be Ser Harold Flowers, and you shall be called Jon Rivers. I decided to take you as my squire because I know what it’s like to be a bastard living in the wake of a lord father.”

“Is that true? Or entirely fiction?”

“The best lies have a hint of truth to them.”

They passed through Harrentown on the castle’s outskirts. It was a quaint village in comparison to the behemoth which constantly overshadowed it, yet was still huge when compared to Wintertown. It was quite different from the place they had stopped at before the Twins; the buildings there had no more than two floors and all had been created from wood and thatch. Harrentown was a mixture of stone and jettying wooden buildings, three, four and five stories tall. It was lively as any place was mid-day, and children and adults ran about creating criss-crossing tracks in the muddy centre of town.

As they approached the main gates, Jon had to crane his neck to see the towers beyond the perimeter walls, hitting his head against the hilt of his sword. He had initially fashioned it to his belt, but hated how it jostled about against his leg as he rode or walked. He decided to put it on his back for good measure, practicing sheathing and unsheathing it in the evenings. This was much to Brynden’s amusement. It took him a lot of time and precision to put the sword away and his movement was anything but fluid. Jon simply asked how his archery practice was going, and Brynden grumbled, turning the opposite direction.

If the Wall in the North was the largest man had ever made, this had to be a close second. The outers walls stretched far outside of Jon’s field of vision, and the view beyond the main gate showed a tunnel which spanned what must have been over a dozen feet. Winterfell’s walls seemed slim and flimsy in comparison. Battlements jutted out all along the tops of the walls and as Jon walked closer, he saw several soldiers standing before the machicolations. The castle could hold several thousand soldiers along the outer walls alone, and none need fear any physical assault. He thought it must have been true that no land army could take this castle. 

Before they could enter through the gates, they were halted by guards wearing sigils of House Whent’s black bats upon their plate armour.

“What’s yer business in the castle?” the man on the left asked. His voice echoed in his helmet and brown whiskers poked through his visor. He made no attempt to physically stop them from entering, but the act of being questioned was enough to halt them in their tracks.

“I am to offer my services to Lady Whent,” Brynden announced loudly. Annunciating his words in a way which a lord or lady might. “And ask that she offer hospitality to me.”

The guard on the right took a moment to look Brynden up and down, before resuming his watch.

“What is it ya offer, which would entice m’lady so?”

“Knowledge about Dragon Eggs.” He spoke assuredly. Convincingly.

“You a maester? Look more like a hedge knight ta’ me.”

Jon heard several horses and a carriage wheels approaching them from behind. Men shouted at each other as the band approached the walls. 

“I’m no maester, but I am not unlearned. I grew up near the Citadel and was able to read many-”

“Step aside! The Lady is passing through!” The guard on the right yelled.

Jon and Brynden lead their horses left to make way for the entourage. The carriage was large and made of a deep walnut wood, but was by no means ornate. Bats had been carved into the side of the roof overhang which could only bee noticed when viewed from close quarters and simple curtains of yellow velvet graced the sides of the open windows of the carriage. It was otherwise rather ordinary.

Jon thought he saw the face of the Lady of Harrenhal. Her eyes took in the scenery, but immediately flicked back to him, boring holes through his skull in the seconds they had to view each other. Her head swivelled to keep watch until it was no longer physically possible. Jon could feel the hairs on his neck raise. He calmed his worries by telling himself that it could have been a maid or servant accompanying the Lady who looked so intently upon him. 

A voice rang out as the carriage passed them and the entire group came to a halt at the entrance to the castle.

The guard on the right strolled up to the carriage to speak to the Lady within, while the guard on the left remained watchful of Brynden and Jon.

“The Lady,” the right guard yelled out to them. “Wishes to know who has approached her walls!”

“Ser Harold Flowers and his squire, Jon Rivers!” Brynden yelled back.

There was much talk between the guard and the Lady within. No distinct words could be heard, but Jon could ascertain that the guard did not like what the Lady had to say.

“Lady Whent!” the guard yelled at them again. “Wishes for you to accompany her to the Great Hall!”

The party moved forward without the slightest hesitation after the guard finished yelling at them. Jon looked at Brynden quizzically, his mouth agape, itching to ask how it could be this easy to gain entrance; worried that it was from that stare which made their quest so much easier.

Brynden merely nodded his head for Jon to follow after the Lady’s guards and bannermen. His questions may be answered shortly, afterall.

Trailing behind, Jon could only gape at the immensity of the structure he was walking through. The main gate had the girth to fit over a dozen murder holes, while the inner wall could fit ten. He tried to imagine a scenario where he could march an army through where he stood, but they all ended with helmets and men being beaten and melted to the ground. 

They at last reached the inner keep, where the towers stood in all their glory. Jon had thought the trees which grew in the neck were massive, but trying to look at the top of the Kingspyre Tower made him feel dizzy. He decided to keep his eyes on the ground, lest he embarrass himself in front of their hostess.

The carriage stopped in front of an immense stone and wood building. Jon would estimate it was the width of Winterfell’s Great Keep, and thought that, in any other circumstance, this would have been the Lady’s main dwelling. 

Brynden and Jon halted their progression as the Lady of Harrenhal stepped forth from her carriage. She gave her hand to a foot soldier standing next to the door to help herself down. Without sparing a glance at her two visitors, she made her way into the building, her long greying hair and skirts swishing behind her. 

The two made an attempt to follow her, Jon leading the way, but were halted again by guards. 

“You may enter, when the Lady says you may enter.”

Sighing, Jon contented himself with watching the castle’s goings-on. There was much activity around this area of the castle, but further away, beyond the gates dividing the towers, was a dim quiet. It was clear only a portion of the castle was used by House Whent while the rest was left to molder. This seemed a little sad to Jon, but understandable, seeing as how this place was fit more for giants, than humans.

At last, they entered, and Jon was surprised at what awaited him. Within the building was a Grand Hall with dozens of fireplaces, only a few being lit at the moment to brighten the Hall. At the very end sat Lady Whent in a modest chair, which nevertheless was raised up to overlook the entire room. Guards were spread sporadically through the Great Hall, with some leaning against the wall and others standing at the ready, watching as the two walked past. Two guards stood before the Lady, the decor on their armour shining brightly from the natural light through the window, causing Jon to have to look away every so often as they approached. It took a minute or so of walking before the two reached the other end of the Hall.

“Who do you,” the older Lady began. “Claim to be?”

“I am Ser Flowers, and this is my squire Jon Rivers.”

“A bastard hedge knight and a bastard squire?”

“We seek your hospitality.”

“While it’s true I have plenty of room, I do not accept drifters as a matter of course. Go to a tavern in Harrentown, where your coin will mean more.”

“It is not comfort or space we seek, it is knowledge.”

A smile, cruel and calculated, appeared on the Lady’s face. 

“What knowledge awaits you here? Death? Despair? Or perhaps you are more interested in frivolous matters. Perhaps stones and fantastical tales draws you here. You will not have been the first person seeking answers to one of the many mysteries of this place.”

“My Lady is quite perceptive.”

“Please, say what you mean to say, bastard. I have become too old to enjoy playing games with words.”

Brynden gave a bow of his head to her. “I have come to exchange information for a chance to examine the Dragon Egg you have here in your magnificent castle.”

“Information? What information? Why would I possibly need any _ more _ information about a stone?”

“Why, what about how to hatch it?”

“HA!” she bellowed, continuing with a large grin. “If you, Ser, have done any amount of inquiry into the subject, you’d know that there is no _ one _ agreed upon means of hatching that damned stone.”

“I believe I have the right answer.”

Lady Whent, still bemused, began to stroke her braided hair between her fingers. “Why could you, Ser Bastard Knight, be right, while all other learned scholars are wrong?” 

“They were looking at the wrong things.”

The lady’s face dropped the last hints of amusement, and her eyes became hard. “What is it then? Out with it.”

“I would very much appreciate if we could make a deal first.”

Lady Whent sighed, “Fine. What is it you want?”

“Exactly what I said before. I want hospitality in your castle for myself and my squire as well as access to the Dragon Egg to examine it in full. Only then, will I tell you what I know in confidence.”

Her hand moved to her chin, holding it steady as if a great weight had been placed upon her head. “Let me see the boy,” she said,casting her gaze upon Jon again. “I will make no decision until I see him.”

“Very well,” Brynden said, pushing Jon in front of him, shoo-ing him towards the Lady. 

Jon nervously looked back at Brynden before slowing walking towards Lady Whent. His hands were anxiously trying to grasp at the sides of his tunic, but he held them still in a ball. Why he was so nervous, he could not put into words. As he walked closer, he could see with more detail the fine lines and age marks which graced the Lady’s face. Her nose was hooked and had liver spots on it. It was clear she was not ancient like Old Nan, but still old enough to be Jon’s grandmother. Even as her wrinkled hand reached out to grasp Jon’s face, it was clear that it was not her outward appearance which scared him: it was her eyes. Her dark blue eyes which pierced his and sent shivers through his spine. There was a hatred behind them, he thought, eerily similar to Catelyn’s glare.

She twisted his head left and right in her hands, and finally tilted his head up to look directly at her face. “Fine,” she said, releasing Jon from her grasp. “You will have my hospitality, but you will also have my guards on you at all hours. While you have convinced me you are interested in the egg, you have not convinced me that you do not have other motives to be here as well. Is that understood?”

Jon scurried back to Brynden, controlling his urge to step behind him to hide from her stare.

“An excellent compromise, my lady.”

“Do not belittle me, bastard, or I’ll retract my offer and have you in the lake.” The Lady then turned her attention towards those beyond Brynden and Jon. “Bennard! Rolland! Escort these two to the guest chambers. You will be accompanying them wherever they go while they remain here. Understood?”

“Urgh, Uh. Ye-” One man slurred.

“Yes, m’Lady.”

“Very well, off you go,” she said, shooing everyone away.

As Jon was lead through Harrenhal, he noticed the mixture of decay and decadence. The interior of the buildings he was lead through showed House Whent’s great wealth; tapestries of ancestors’ exploits and religious events were draped on every wall in vibrant colours, and carpets of black and yellow lined the corridors leading to the guest’s chambers. Wooden tables were periodically placed throughout halls and rooms, displaying treasures and artifacts gifted to the Whents in the last century - even before they became Lords of the castle. However, there was a certain melancolia which hung in the air and depressed even the most cheerful of moods. Perhaps it was the stones of this place, ever so slightly warped, mortar cracked here and there, which reminded its inhabitants of what took place. Jon recalled his histories: Danelle Lotheston was the last person to inhabit the castle before the Whents, and she was said to have bathed in blood and ate the flesh of men…

This truly was a haunted place.

Their horses were stored safely, and items tucked away and locked in separate rooms. Before Brynden could suggest their next move, Jon jumped at the chance to try to find a Master-at-Arms.

“Can I ask and see after lessons… Ser?” Jon asked Brynden, adding the addition honorific in front of the guards watching them.

“What’s this now?”

“You said I could find myself someone to teach me how to better use my sword… Ser”

“I did? Well, I do not remember it. You will find someone soon enough, though.” Brynden seemed distracted. He fiddled with his clothes and more than once did he put his hands up to his helmet to remove it, before setting his hands down again. 

“Should I go by myself, Ser?”

“Yes, yes. You do that. I’ll find… I’ll find the egg.”

“Not likely,” one of the guards said. It was the man who was flustered before. He had dark facial hair and was bald on top from shaving. He would have been intimidating to Jon had his voice not been so high pitched.

“Why is that?” Jon asked, as Brynded walked towards the window, oblivious to everything else in the room.

“You can only see it when accompanied by m’lady.”

“She didn’t say that before,” Jon protested.

“I’ll see about the library then, shall I?” Brynden responded, facing them momentarily before drifting back into his thoughts - whatever they were.

The guard harrumphed, but stepped aside for Jon to leave. Jon looked to Brynden, hoping he would say something, to give him some sort of direction. Nothing was said. Ne never looked back.

Jon, less joyful than he initially was at the thought of a new teacher, trudged out of the room, the other guard in tow behind him. He didn’t exactly know where he was going, but also didn’t want to ask the guard behind him, so he made his best effort to find his way back to the main courtyard and seek out the armoury, or a training yard, from there.

He walked down several flights of stairs and crossed many large rooms and anti-chambers before deciding he was lost. He was determined to keep walking though, as being lost seemed like a childish thing to have happened to him, and he didn’t want to seem a child in front of this persons watching him so avidly. 

He was again impressed with how many _ things _ decorated Harrenhal. There were more metal sculptures and paintings and carved furniture adorning every crook and cranny. Jon had to remind himself that the Whents didn’t use the entirety of their castle, and so must have crammed everything into the two nearest towers to the main gate. 

Something caught his eye. It was strange that this item did when others were so much flashier and rich with colour. On a counter, sitting in a room which was large and spacious and no different from any other room, sat a wreath of dried flowers. He thought these flowers must have been roses of some dark colour. _ Blue Roses, perhaps? _ Jon had thought that they only grew in Winterfell. It reminded him of the crown Jenny had made out of the flowers he gave her. He was wondering what she was doing as he made his way up to the dried, brittle crown.

“No touching!” The guard announced succinctly. His nose was held high when Jon turned to look at him.

“I wasn’t going to touch it, I was just… looking.”

“You have been taking an awfully curious route to find a Master-at Arms, if that is what you mean to do. How about we look into that instead.”

Jon scowled at the man, “I… I became lost.”

“Of course.”

“Will you show me where to go.”

“With you leading, I will.”

Scowling again, Jon was directed outside the tower he was in and past another building with hearty smells emanating from it.

“Rolland!” An older woman called from the doorway of the building. “Rolland! I hope I see you at dinner tonight!”

This time, it was the guard who began to scowl.

“Rolland! Answer your mother when she’s talkin’ to you!” The woman was hollering after him.

“We should probably stop,” Jon suggested, suppressing a smile.

“If you even dare to-”

“Rolland! Rolland!” his mother called, waddling up to meet him. His mother was plump and had many stains upon her smock, suggesting she was a cook of some degree for the castle. She carried in her hand a ladle, which she cradled in her other palm to keep it from spilling.

“Here, here. Taste this! How’s that now? Did you miss it while you were out in the country?”

“Yes,” he grumbled, trying to minimize how humiliated he felt about his mother feeding him in front of a suspicious guest of Lady Whent.

“Good, good. And who’s this, then? Hmm? Would you like to try some? I have plenty more in the kitchen.”

“No. Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine for now.”

“Oh, off it! Has my rolland been bullying you? No need to be so concerned, it’s just a spot of food.”

“No, I-”

“I can’t begin to tell you how serious he was growing up, but - oh - how this position means the world to him! He would train from dawn ‘til dusk just tryin’ ta be noticed by the captain of the guard. ‘Course, it was never a problem since I’ve always worked here and know the Captain quite finely, thank you, but-”

“Mother, you shouldn’t be talking so much. You don’t even know who this boy is!”

“He’s a guest here, isn’t he? That’s why you’re following him around? If the Lady is fine with him, then I’m fine with him. He’s just a boy, anyhow.”

“But he’s acting very susp-”

“Oh, he’s still young! The way you acted growin’ up, I’d’a thought you were in league with the Mad King!”

As Rolland groaned, Jon asked his mother a question. “You’re fond of Lady Whent, then?” Jon thought it would have been impossible to like someone so… harrowing.

“Oh, the Lady Shella Whent is a dear woman. So calm, so clear and rational. It’s such a shame what happened to her family. I think that’s what’s caused her to be so frigid nowadays.”

“What happened to her family?”

“You don’t need to answer that! We were on our way to-”

“Oh! Off it, Rolland! We’re having a conversation!” Rolland began to grumble again. His mother turned back to Jon and continued. “I’ve been here all my life and have grown up with the lady practically. Oh, she was such a sweet dear when she first came here to wed the next Lord Whent. I even remember she asked for her compliments to be made to who ever made pastries for her wedding day - which was me of course. I was so honoured! But, of course, her sons all ended up dying and her daughter is all married off and dead, and her husband’s dead, so that leaves most people in a state of sadness.”

“Wha-” Jon was struck by the sudden turn. “What happened?”

“Why, Rhaegar Targaryen happened, didn’t he? He makes the Lord Whent host a tourney here, disgraces Lady Whent’s daughter by not making her the Queen of Love and Beauty like her brothers would have, and goes and has himself a war with the wolves and stags. He might’ve been handsome, but he was not the brightest candle in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I- How did her sons die?” Jon asked, unsure if it had been answered.

“Well, in the war, of course. And her daughter in child-birth - mercy on her. But if Rhaegar wasn’t so intent on that tourney, I’d bet she’d be surrounded by grandchildren right now, not living as the last of House Whent.”

This was all new to Jon, as he processed everything she had said, something didn’t make sense.

“Why did he want to host the tourney here?” Jon had heard the tale of how Robert’s Conquest began - how his aunt caught the prince’s attention and he stole her away, causing his uncle and grandfather to be sent to their doom in Kinglanding. He had never heard the specifics of it, though. It had never crossed his mind that he might have wanted to know more about what happened. What was at the beginning of such a massive power shift in Westeros? 

“Oh, I barely remember now. I remember the Lord grumblin’ about the last King - Aerys, and how Rhaegar wanted to make things better. But it’s clear he was no better than his father. It’s all the past, anyhow.”

Jon’s interest only began to rise further. _ Rhaegar wanted to make things better? _ “Who was crowned instead of Lady Whent’s daughter?”

“Why, the she-wolf, of course! The Lady Lyanna Stark.”

“_ He _ crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty?” Rolland’s mother nodded her head. “And then he kidnapped her?”

“Haven’t you heard this before, boy?” Rolland asked him, his voice thick with annoyance.

“No,” Jon shook his head. “I haven’t.”

“Well, now you have and it’s time to move on!”

“But-” Jon tried to protest, but Rolland was physically pushing him away from his mother.

His mother was shaking her head, her lips twitching down into a frown. “I’ll see you tonight, then?”

“Yes, yes.” Rolland muttered back.

Jon never got to find a Master-at-Arms though, for Brynden had other plans up his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who keeps reading and commenting and kudosing and bookmarking and subscribing to this work in progress! It really means a lot and keeps me going when I have writer's block or just want to delete everything and call it a day! Now, I get to post a completed chapter and call it a day!


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never trust a murder of crows

Jon headed towards the castle training grounds, trying not to smirk too widely as Rolland trailed behind - as close to dragging his feet in the dirt as his dignity would allow. 

Not too long thereafter, there was a fluttering of wings from above, which was not unusual within Harrenhal. No one seemed alert to the noise in the streets of the castle at first. The sound became cacophonous instead of fluttering out in a din, though. Only when the sun was blotted out was it enough to make Rolland look up, pausing in his duty to watch Jon.

“What in the-”

Jon looked around, too. Above them were a murder of crows, or perhaps ravens, flying in a circular formation. Wings touched other wings, and the birds flew closely on top of one another. None cried out. The sound that engulfed the courtyard was a smattering of feathers beating against the air.

The few persons scattered about outside under the mass of birds cried out in fear, running away and in doors to save themselves. A mother was screaming her child’s name, a little girl began to cry as she looked up, upon the black bodies descending slowly upon them. A man took out his dirk, steely eyes ready for whatever he was to endure. 

Jon stood with his hands on his hips, eyes narrowed. One look upon the birds instantly told him this was Bloodraven’s doing, what he was up to though, was still a mystery.

“Get, back!” Rolland yelled. He ran up to Jon, dragging him towards the nearest building and shoved him inside, closing the door behind them. His eyes were frantic, his hand locked on the hilt of his sword as his back hit the door, acting as a counter weight to whatever might force itself inside.

“What, in the name of the Seven, is happening?” A man, also taking shelter in the building, asked. The only light came in through the slits in the door frame, cloaking the man in darkness until he spoke. It appeared to have been a storage facility, and dim outlines of crates and barrels lined the walls to the ceiling on the outskirts of the room.

“I don’t know. They came out of nowhere.”

“Well, you’re a guard! Do something!” the man complained.

“Fight off a thousand birds with a sword?” Rolland asked. It would have been comical if his heart wasn’t beating so fast.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Jon spoke up. He said it hesitantly, as he thought it would be rather difficult to explain how he knew this. 

“How do you know that?” Rolland asked, rightly.

“Listen,” Jon said.

Outside the walls of the storage room, all was quiet. Jon tried to open the door to look out, but Rolland was a tough sell. At last, he allowed Jon to peek outside, granted that his sword was ready right behind him. 

What Jon saw puzzled him. A mixture of crows and ravens delineated a path leading from their building away from the training yard and back towards the inner keep where the five towers stood. They were five to seven birds deep outlining the road. They looked upon him expectantly, turning and bobbing their heads individually, giving the impression of there being two moving rivers of black feathers. 

Other people had popped their heads out of windows and door frames as well, curious about the sudden silence. More than a few were already looking towards him quizzically. Jon sighed, upset at the amount of attention this had brought him.

“Wha- What do they want?” Rolland stuttered.

Jon sighed again. If his suspicions were true, saying what the birds were there for out loud would only sound ridiculous.

“I’m heading out.”

“Wait! Birds… They just don’t do that!” Rolland protested, but Jon had already fully opened the door. He kept his eyes down to avoid the stares more and more people were giving him. Carefully, he tried to walk through the birds, but his efforts were fruitless. The crows would caw, pecking and clawing at his ankles making him feel as though he had walked into a thorn bush.

_I suppose my sword training will have to wait._

“J-You cant- I won’t- What is going on?” Rolland nearly yelled.

“What's going on is that we have to follow the path."

"We?"

"Aren’t you supposed to watch me?” Jon asked, already several feet away from the entrance of the building.

Rolland stepped forward slowly, sword pointed out in front of himself in a defensive position. The birds’ heads followed him while Rolland set forward, eyes hard upon Jon.

As Rolland walked, there was a commotion behind him, causing him to swing his sword around cutting at the air. He hit a crow. Blood and feathers scattered through the air as the body hit the ground. More birds began to caw around him and began to take flight.

Rolland spun his sword around once more in an effort to keep the birds away. His years of training failing him as his targets dipped and spun around his arcs and swipes. Finally, the birds nearest him dispersed and he was left alone, with sword in hand. Only the birds before Jon remained in place - watching, cocking their heads silently.

“Bloody good you are!” the man from the storage room complained after having watched Rolland dance about. Other people peering at the spectacle also began to murmur in the distance.

Grumbling, Rolland sheathed his sword and marched towards Jon. “You,” he snarled. “Have a lot of explaining to do,” ordering him to lead the way once more for good measure.

Jon’s palms began to sweat as more and more people stood and stared at the two men walking amongst the birds. Whispers began to spread through the crowd who became emboldened enough to stand near the single minded fowl. As they strolled, the crows and ravens behind them continuously dispersed creating a long, black line of birds over head to mark their progression to… wherever they were going. For months he and Brynden had kept a low profile - going by different names and changing their clothes to seem innocuous. But this was… the opposite of that: nocuous. 

_ What is he thinking? _ Jon raged in his head. He had to keep himself from grinding his teeth together the longer they walked and the more wide eyes they passed. While he wanted to yell at him when he eventually saw him, he was also awestruck by the amount of animals he was able to control.

_ It was such a chore for me to reach out to Bassal, yet he can skinchange into hundreds of creatures with apparent ease. _ Jon knew to hold his tongue. _ I shouldn’t be so astonished. He can use a human body as freely as anything else. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more powerful than any other human by an order of many magnitudes. _

He finally arrived at the foot of the other tower he had yet to pass through, and there beyond the door was Brynden, book in hand. He stood in a large antichamber with many wooden benches and woolen carpets, smelling of must and spruce. The other guard, Bennard, sat across from Brynden. He stared off into the distance, perhaps looking at the tapestry in the far corner depicting a woman and her children.

“Lady Whent, was right,” Brynden mused, flipping a page. “There is no one agreed upon theory about how or why the egg is here.”

Jon ignored him. “Do you know what’s happened outside?” he asked trying to be inconspicuous in front of Rolland.

“Do explain,” Brynden said without looking up.

“Bloody crows!” Rolland said exacerbated. “Bloody birds were… were… Well, they were everywhere!”

“How is that any different than any other day?” Bennard asked.

“They were… lined up,” he spoke, his arms dictating the action in his story. “And we followed them here!”

Bennard tilted his head and sucked air in between his teeth. “Well tell the Captain. It seems the crows can form a better army than us!”

“This isn’t funny!” Rolland hissed, his face becoming pink. “They were lined up and watching us and they lead us here!”

“Oh? And where are they now?”

“They’re-” Rolland looked behind him expecting to see at least a few black, beady eyes peering at them. There was nothing. Only the people who gathered outside in their wake who seemed not to know where to go or do after the birds had flown away.

“Can you tell me why I’m here?” Jon asked, feeling a headache creeping upon him.

“Me?” Brynden asked. “You’re the one who came here.”

Jon closed his eyes and prayed to whatever God would listen to give him strength.

Rolland continued to protest. “As soon as I’m allowed to serve m’lady, I’m assigned to you. As soon as you show up, this happens. Have I done something to deserve this? Have I committed some sin? I pray every night to the Seven and I’m good to my mother! I really am good!”

“I’m sure you are,” Brynden said responding to his outburst. “Do not fret about sins and rules and principles. Only terrible people are in want of good principles to live by, but they, by their very nature, refuse to do so. You are not bad, but overly zealous,” he paused, eyeing Rolland up and down. “And being zealous can easily be confused for being bad.”

Rolland opened his mouth to respond but was cut off.

“Jon, since you’re conveniently here, I ask that you help me find some text about the egg. Anything to unravel how it was placed here.”

Sighing, Jon was lead up the stairs to the main library where the two spent the next several hours reading over papers and books in varying states of decay.

_ Among the Small Folk of the Stone Sept, it is said that Bloodraven took Lady Lotheston as a mistress and cast her aside, sacrificing his lover for evil blood magics to ensure his curse was set upon the egg - upon the castle itself. _

“Utter slander,” Brynden muttered distastefully.

_ It is known that the greatest stonesmith at the time, Rogar Waters, was in the Riverlands whilst Brynden Rivers set upon Whitewalls in 212 AC. It is supposed that he took up his services to embed an egg at Harrenhal for future generations of Targaryen rulers to use. _

“I have never heard of this man in my life.”

_ North of River Road, it is a popular belief that the Smith and Father Himself came down upon Harrenhal to grant Brynden Rivers his request. For the Gods above knew his cause to be just and knew that if the world were ever to be spun out of sorts, this would put the world of men to right. _

“I wish…” he sighed, closing the last book upon the topic. “It seems that not much knowledge can be gained here.”

“What was, er, Bloodraven’s request, do you think… Ser?” Jon asked, rolling his piece of parchment up.

“His request,” said a familiar voice. “Was to make my life a living nightmare.” Lady Whent approached them with her hands clasped, four guards trailing behind her.

Rolland and Bennard stood at attention from where they were sitting.

“What is this I hear of sentinel birds putting my castle into utter chaos? I do hope that my guest which I’ve graciously invited into my house are not behind this. Perhaps we should have broken bread first? Need I fear any more for my life?”

“My lady, I was doors when whatever it is that occurred, happened. The guard you placed on my can attest to that. I was-”

“No. Not you, but the boy. My people are saying that these birds lined up for you, leading you through the keep. I admit, I don’t know what to make of this and have half a mind to throw you out for causing such a ruckus.”

“I… I don’t know what to say my Lady. I don’t have an explanation myself.”

Lady Whent stared at him. They had only met earlier this day, but her eyes bore into him like an old adversary, the lines around her mouth crinkled and drew out further. 

“Who so hatches this egg of this stone and anvil,” she said. “Is rightwise King born and true heir to Aegon the Conqueror.” 

“I’m sorry?” Jon responded dumbly.

“That was Bloodraven’s request: his prophecy. And that is the reason why I have so many travelers from near and far wanting their chance at hatching the damned thing. It has been an egg for hundreds of years, and I suspect it will remain as such for just as long as the sun shall rise.”

Jon felt his face flush, feeling like a fool.

“Perhaps we should break bread tonight, then,” she continued, eyeing Brynden. “And you can tell me all about your secrets.” Lady Whent turned and left without bothering to wait for a response, her guards close on her tail.

Jon felt frustrated with himself. He should have seen this from a mile away. No. Before that. When they were at the Inn at the Crossroads. Brynden must have wanted to hatch this egg for himself, or else his relatives across the sea. For what other reason could they be here? He was the one who placed it, so it was obvious that he would want to eventually hatch it. 

“Well, m’Lady said she’s expecting you for dinner, so you best get ready,” Bennard said ushering them out of the library.

“I told you,” Rolland muttered towards Bennard as they left.

As Jon and Brynden went to clean themselves up and dress for the occasion, Jon passed by more groups of people pausing to stare and whisper amongst the crowd. He felt awkward, although he had done nothing objectively wrong. Why had he decided to take Brynden’s bait? Why follow his lead? Now that he knew what he was up to, he had to figure out what Brynden had instore for _ him _. 

_ He means to hatch this thing. Whether it’s for himself or his relations is irrelevant since it would entail another war in Westeros. _

It was shame which burdened Jon’s conscience as he dress for dinner. He was ashamed of himself for coming all this way, with a man he barely knew, to use deceitful means for treasonous ends. 

_ How was I supposed to know the disembodied voice in the forest would be a bad influence? _ He thought sardonically. 

He looked at himself in the mirror and hated what looked back. Dark eyes and dark hair with a grim expression to tie everything together. He thought himself so smart back in Winterfell. He studied everything the maester told him to, and then some. But he knew nothing about the rest of the world. What he knew of the Small Folk or the Riverlands he had read in a book, but the reality was entirely different. A book could not tell you the backache that comes from seeding a field or shearing sheep or harvesting crops. A book could not tell him of the chill which may run down your spine if ever one was to meet the Lady of Harrenhal. A book could not tell him what to do when the voice he had been hearing for a large part of his life suddenly embodied a human and took him off trekking through Westeros to find lay work and a dragon egg and possibly commit treason.

He knew what he had to do. He had to tell Shella Whent what he suspected. Perhaps not the full truth of the matter, but just enough to keep whatever Brynden planned from happening.

Brynden had come down to dinner with a hat on instead of his usual helmet or hood. Jon wore the cleanest clothes he could find, which still had stains on them. Rolland and Bernard accompanied them into the hall, eating at a comically far distant corner of the room. 

Dinner that night did include a full helping of bread and salt for them to break. Another guest had joined them from the crown lands, a second son of House Manning. They supped in silence for the majority of the time, Jon casting glances at both Brynden and Lady Whent - neither of whom looked at the other. The man from House Manning made small talk with Lady Whent, but never spared a glance at either Jon or Brynden. 

Although the hall was large, the space made it so even the softest whisper could be heard on the other side. This made for a deathly silent event, for the guards did not want to disturb the Lady, but the Lady and her guests had rarely a word to say to each other. Jon had thought he felt awkward outside in front of all the whispers and stares, but at least out there he could leave. 

“I believe,” Shella Whent said, placing her spoon down having finished her meal. “You have something to tell me.”

The man from House Manning looked quizzically towards the two of them, as though he only just realized they were there.

“Very well,” Brynden said. “I have come to a simple conclusion which may seem ridiculous at first, but I believe has the most merit.”

Lady Whent nodded for him to continue.

“Fire and blood,” his voice became more guttural. “I believe it is only with fire and blood that a dragon egg can hatch.”

Lady Whent sighed. “That has been tried already.”

“And whose blood did you use?”

She remained silent, staring after Brynden. Her eyes flickered over to Jon before returning to his. 

“The boy will accompany me tomorrow. That is all I have to say tonight.” She rose from her chair to leave. “Manfred, you are free to leave as well, I’m sorry I could not offer you more entertainment this evening.”

“Just as well,” he responded, rising from his seat to leave the hall after her.

“My lady,” Rolland called from down the hall. “Shall I escort you tomorrow?”

She walked down the hall towards him before answering his question. “No. We shall be fine by ourselves.”

Jon would have all the time in the world tomorrow, to tell her about Brynden’s plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been really sick this week and I think it's a miracle I have close to 3000 words written. It's not as polished as I want it, but if I want to finish the first part of the story before Christmas break, then I need to stay on this crazy schedule I've created for myself. I hope to publish the last chapter of this first part next week, and then the week after, I plan on having an 'interlude' chapter. And then that's all for 2019! I can't believe it's almost over! 
> 
> I'll talk more about what I plan to do in 2020 once I'm done part one.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for the season finale, where we'll see what went down in the Whent household. 
> 
> Part 1 is entitled: the Egg in the Stone.

Jon had a nightmare that night; something which he hadn’t had in a very long time. Strange blue eyes peered at him as he raced along the courts and paths of Harrenhal as ravens pecked at his face. He frantically tried to wave them away, but they kept clawing at him, calling to him: “treason, treason, king, treason.”

He wanted to yell out that he didn’t mean it, he never meant for things to end up like this. But he had no voice: each time he opened his mouth nothing escaped it.

He saw his father in the window of the tallest tower, looking down on him, shame clear on his face. He turned away in disgust. Jon tried calling out to him too, but his father couldn’t hear him.

Dark wings engulfed the tops of the towers, and he knew that Aegon must have been here to make the Riverlands bow down. The ravens and blue eyes were gone, replaced with flames of all colours. Blue and red and orange and yellow; if it were not for the screams that filled his ears he would think it was beautiful. 

Time slowed for him as he looked up, trying to find the Conqueror. What he saw instead was a black, smooth, oval stone, standing upright in front of another dark, circular stone. They encompassed his entire field of vision. He thought it was some sort of hill falling from the sky, when the oval stone contracted, becoming more narrow. Everything clicked together and he woke up in a panic.

_ It was an eye. Something was looking at me _ .

He noted that the sun was about to rise, while he talked himself down from his fear. 

_ It was just a dream. It was just a dream. You’re not a child anymore, you shouldn’t be having these nightmares.  _

He stared out into the sky as his breathing evened out. Clouds were drifting in from the west, and he thought that they would have rain before long.

He dressed himself as well as he could, reusing the clothes he wore to dinner last night for today’s errands with Lady Whent. He walked up the stairs from the guest rooms to find her chambers as the morning began to wake the castle up. He noted maids had already gone up and down from the rooms above him when he finally felt bold enough to seek her out.

After walking through her solar, he knocked twice upon her chamber doors calling out to her. 

“Enter,” he heard her say.

When he went inside her chamber, he found it much less like what he had imagined a Lady’s room would look like. His image was solely based off of Sansa’s room, however, and he chided himself for being so base in his thoughts. 

Her chamber was filled with many of the same things his Lord Father’s were filled with: a bed, a cabinet, a locked chest, a desk with papers filling every inch of space. It was rather plain, but, nonetheless, busy. No. Messy was the right word. Articles of clothing lay strewn on various surfaces, some with the impression that they had not been touched in a long time. Jon wondered what her maids were for if they never helped clean when they came up here.

The Lady sat at her desk eyeing the ink on a piece of paper she had just penned. “Sit,” she said without looking at him. Jon looked about the room trying to find an appropriate place to do so. He settled on an armchair with a green silk and satin dress covering the backrest. It had the least amount of  _ stuff _ on it.

He sat with hands clasped together, trying to think of a way to bring up what Brynden wanted to do as she continued to ignore him from her desk. His heart began to race as he went over various scenarios in his mind: what if she executes him instead? What if she tells the King, or worse, his father? He thought he recalled his Father being in his dream, but he couldn’t remember the circumstances.

_ As long as she knows I’m doing the right thing for the right reasons, there shouldn’t be too many repercussions for me. _

“Have you been in the presence of a Lady before?” she asked as she began to rewrite a letter.

“Yes,” he nearly yelped. He was so busy thinking of his untimely death, that he was taken off guard by her question, answering honestly. 

“Why are you so on edge, then? I am not going to stab you with this quill, so please stop sweating so much, it will ruin my good dress.”

“S-sorry,” he responded, wiping his palms on his legs.

“Would there be another reason why you are… in such a state?”

“Ye-er. Umm. Well, I-”

“Hold your tongue until you know what you want to say. It does no good to stutter about and make yourself look a fool, subjecting your listeners to… all that unpleasantness.”

Jon sat up straighter, keeping his mouth shut. He could see she was not a person who took anything less than perfection.

Shella Whent went back to her letters and Jon went back to his thoughts, unsure if he actually wanted to tell her anything anymore.

“Shall we break our fast?” she asked rhetorically, ringing for a maid to bring in food for herself and her guest. She ushered him into her solar where they could eat at a proper table. She brought with her some papers, and looked them over as they waited for food to be served.

In the middle of their meal, Jon attempted to begin a conversation. Not anything heavy in content, just noting the weather. Lady Whent, however, put an end to it. It was rude to interrupt a meal with trivial topics: you never knew if it would be your last meal, so it was best to savour what was before you if you could. Jon didn’t have a response for that, so he continued to remain silent.

“Do you know what it is a Lady or Lord does about their castle?” she asked, dabing her mouth clean, having finished her meal.

“Some,” he replied.

“Then you know the responsibility which goes with it.” she said, fixing her plates away on the table and returning her attention to her papers.

Jon agreed he did know. 

“What do you think of it, Jon Rivers? This responsibility? Hmm?” Her eyes briefly glanced up at him before returning to her desk.

Her air seemed entirely different when asking this question. She almost seemed friendly and jovial.

“I think…” he began, thinking hard about how this might be one of those vague question girls would ask, when what they really meant to ask was about their own person. Sansa would do this with Robb and himself. “I think you weild it well,” he decided.

“Oh?” she grinned. “And why do you think that?”

“You look like you’re working hard.” Her smile grew a touch wider.

“Appearances can be quite deceiving,” she said placing her pen down to fully speak with him. “I’m writing letters to my cousin about how much it pains me to not be at their spoiled brat of a grandchild’s wedding.”

“Oh,” he said rather taken aback.

“Tell me, if I were to shirk my responsibilities everyday, would you still call me a good Lady of Harrenhal?”

Jon thought on this a moment. “I suppose I would. I spoke to a few of your people and they seem to be fond of you.”

“My people: fond of me?” she tilted her head and looked off into the distance. “That is an admirable measure of goodness, but still lacks the ability to measure the right of that person to their Lord or Ladyship.”

“The right of that person comes from the right of their Lord Father being a Lord himself. And-”

“And back and back it goes. Until you find that there was a family before them who ruled those parts, and a family before them.”

“The Starks have always ruled in the North,” he said, trying to be thoughtful.

“The Starks? Who said we were talking of the Starks. Besides, there was a time when they did not rule  _ all _ of the North, was there not?

Jon flushed at his misstep. Although he was still determined to tell her about Brynden’s plan, it was clear she had something to say, and leading her away from that subject may not prove to be the right move at this point.

“I thought you said the other day,” Jon grimaced. “That you were too old to play games with words.”

Her smile widened. “I believe I did. Let me clarify: I am too old to be playing words with other men who would have something of me. I am not so old as to not enjoy playing words with young boys who think quite highly of themselves.”

“I’m not- I don’t...” he protested, cutting himself off, realizing that no matter what he said, he would make himself look bad.

“Fine, I’ll stop harassing you,” she said as she rose from her chair and walked over to him. “For now. At present, I’ll have you by my side as I conduct myself as Lady of Harrenhal. Do you have any questions?”

“Why?”

“So that I can continue to harass you later.”

With that she moved to the door to exit the room. Jon sat still, momentarily stunned by her answer. He decided it was best to do as she said and hurried after her.

Their morning consisted of going over food storage and livestock numbers; a very dull affair. Shella kept asking Jon to tally numbers for her to his delight; he was always quite good at sums. The steward later found them as Jon had his head down, thinking through what it meant to have less sows born this spring than anticipated. The steward was an older man with a long face and a long nose which tip pointed down like a beak of a bird. He seemed to be in a constant state of gloom as the edges of his lips were constantly held down by his jowls. He eyed JOn before addressing Lady Whent.

“Your, ah, usual vassal, is asking after reinforcements again.”

“Still the same thoughts?”

“Indeed.”

“Jon,” Shella said, turning to him. “If your vassal had notions that their neighbours had done a disservice to them by encroaching on their lands, would you send them aid to retaliate?”

“Me?”

“There is no one else here named Jon.”

“Er-”

“Tsk,” the steward snipped at him. “My Lady, is it really wise to allow this… boy to follow you? To know your business within your own walls?”

“I have the final say on what happens with my guests.”

“Yes, of course, but-”

“And I have decided he should accompany me today. And that is final.”

The steward bowed his head.

“What would you do, then?” Jon asked, a bit perturbed to be placed in this situation.

The steward narrowed his eyes at him. “We should do nothing. It does no good to play favourites, nor to play into petty border disputes between lords who don’t even have defensive walls.”

“Very well, we’ll leave the wall-less Lords to their struggles and send, instead, our warm regards.”

The steward bowed and exited the room, but not before giving Jon one last scowl. 

When Jon was done helping her with sums, they walked towards the Widow’s Tower which had the vast array of items decorating the halls ways and rooms within it. Rain began to come down outside with a great furry. At first, Jon had thought it was hail, but as he looked out it appeared to be a torrent. He had never seen such a sudden spectacle. He knew it was only mid-morning, but the great clouds above them blocked out the sun to make it appear near night. Looking through the window panes, he could see people running, hands over their heads, to get out of the rain. It was there that they ran into the Maester.

“My Lady, I have just gotten word that there’s a fire started outside one of the villages two leagues away. It’s begun to spread across fields and is uncomfortably close to the inhabitants.”

“I trust that there’s men enough to help contain it here? I can send a few dozen to help.”

“That would be most helpful, I think, my Lady.”

“What caused it?”

“I’m hearing talk about a lightning storm rolling through the area. The same one may come through here from the looks of it outside.”

“Stay alert, then. I don’t want any sort of conflagration happening.”

“As you say,” the maester nodded before running off.

Jon noted the amount of…  _ things _ which rested everywhere in the castle: from the tapestries to the carpets to the items displayed in the other tower. If anything were to catch fire, it would surely result in- 

A long, deep roll of thunder bellowed out across the land. It lasted longer than Jon had ever heard and sent a shiver across his skin. He remembered his dream briefly; there was a fire somewhere…

“This ruins my plans to stroll outside.” She wrung her hands together, staring out into the rain as pools began to form in the muddy streets. “I prefer to go to my servants, you see, instead of hailing everyone to myself. I find everything runs more smoothly when they aren’t called away from their work. Alas…” She turned away from the window pane, briefly gliding her fingertips over unarticulated armour before walking back where they came. “I wanted to ensure the cooks knew of our circumstances for the next few months, but it can wait,” she sighed, hailing a guard stationed in a corridor to find his Captain and bring him here.

Once he was gone, she found a pillowed settee in the next room to sit upon. It was surrounded on either side by dried flowers and antlers and feathers from various birds were piled together into a decorative arrangement. Guards stood at either end of the hall, directing their gaze towards the wall.

Opposite to her, was an unfinished mural. White plaster covered the walls and a rough sketching showed tourney competitors and viewers in various poses. The center showed a jousting ground, but no figures were drawn to show what happened. Only the borders had been painted in a black and yellow paint.

Jon stood beside her as the Lady sunk into her seat staring fondly at the wall.

“What would you do if your people were in danger from a fire?” she asked him quite suddenly.

Jon didn’t know what to think of Lady Shella Whent. She could be stern and harsh, cold and snide, but also uncertain and vulnerable. This day had not gone as he thought it would. She was not half as scary as she had been the other day, or even this morning, and Jon didn’t know what to make of it. He thought she would be angry and cruel and he would be begging for forgiveness for one thing or another.

_ Perhaps it would be alright to warn her of Brynden… _

“I would want to help. I think what you did was helpful.”

“Yet I’ve denied men to one cause and granted them to another. Is that very responsible of me?”

“I think,” Jon began chewing his lip. “It was responsible to help the small folk who have no other means to help themselves. Whereas your vassal presumably has men of his own he could raise if need be.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, her eyes less scornful than they had been. “He doesn’t. Not enough to be effective at winning anything. He’s helped me in the past by providing his peasants to work in my fields when there was a sickness last autumn. It saddens me to have to hold this line against him, but I cannot do as he wishes.”

They were quiet for a while, the rain pelting against the ground and walls echoed through the tower. A flash from outside gave Jon a start. He waited several seconds before hearing the accompanying thunder. The worst of the storm was still miles away.

“My husband had this commissioned for our children,” Lady Whent said. With each word she seemed a little older.

Jon looked it over again, trying to piece together what it might be about. Was it a story, or maybe… Maybe more. 

“Is this about…” he trailed off.

“The tourney my husband hosted,” she said finishing his thought. “He was so sure it was going to be the most memorable day for our daughter and the entire Kingdom. He had told her, her brothers would win and crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty. She was all smiles from that day, and she practiced her dances and manners for months leading up to it. I could never get her to be interested in those things until then. I was so pleased. I told my husband that we should host a tournament every month until we find her a match,” she laughed.

“And then I found out his real reasoning.” she looked back at Jon, the bags under her eyes becoming more apparent in the dim lighting. “I didn’t dare tell anyone before, but it does not matter now as it’s not treasonous anymore.”

That sparked a thought in Jon: his dream had something to do with treason…

“Did you know,” she asked him, looking back towards the mural. “That Rhaegar was trying to overthrow his father?” If Jon had not been attentive to her before, he certainly was now. With a blink he felt wide awake and intrigued.

_ Rhaegar? Overthrow the mad king? _

“He wanted him disposed of and was trying to find backers for his ploy. He thought the best place to do it would be here, where it’s prophesied that an heir will emerge to… well, everyone has a different opinion on that. My fool-hearted husband was one of those who backed him. He jumped at the chance to host the royal family and bent over backwards trying to please the King he eagerly wanted gone. He was a cruel man. I had heard of his imprisonment and thought anyone would take revenge, but his continued…” She looked over to him finally, smiling sadly. Her face having grown long with her tale. “I’m just being an old woman rambling about the past, now.”

“I haven't heard anything about it before,” Jon said honestly. “There aren’t many books which go into detail about… this period of time.”

“Well it’s good to hear your father taught you to read. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell you how to make a lady feel like she isn’t from an ancient time in history.”

Jon felt his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry, I-”

She smiled at him. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it.”

“Please go on,” Jon said, wanting to move past his blunder.

“There's not much more to say. Rhaegar won the joust and shocked everyone by not giving it to his wife. Everyone but me, mind you. It was no surprise after he found the Knight of the Laughing Tree behind our stables undressing after her victory.”

“Who’s that?”

“You never heard?”

“Heard of a Laughing Tree Knight?”

“It may not have been the biggest event at the tourney, but it was certainly a popular topic. The mysterious knight who came from nowhere, defeating several knights before disappearing. The King sent his guards after the knight since he thought he would come for him! But the knight was a woman, and I couldn’t  _ not _ help her.”

“Who was it?” Jon asked. He tried not to sound like a child, but it was difficult when this was all so new to him. His father had been at this tourney, he knew. His family was in this story even if they didn’t take center stage here.

Lady Whent grinned. “Lady Lyanna Stark.”

Jon’s heart just about jumped out of his chest. 

_ My aunt? _

“She came to me with the now Lord Reed when they couldn’t find all the parts they needed. Said it was for her brother Brandon. It was obvious from their measurements, that he had to be a tiny man… or a girl near her sixteenth name day. When I heard the King call for the knight’s head, I waited to be sure of things. I wasn’t going to betray her, you see, I wanted to scare her a bit to make sure she never did such a foolish thing again. But… Rhaegar got to her first.”

“And then he kidnapped her!” Jon exclaimed too loudly, causing the guards to look their way. “I mean,” he said clearing his throat and making an attempt to calm himself. “That’s why he kidnapped her, right? Because she was the Knight with the Tree?”

“No, no. He seemed quite amused at what he found, and she seemed quite angry at being found-out. I remember hearing him ask if she’d seen a fair maiden, since the Starks had misplaced her. She said there was no fair girl such as that. That girls of the North know the cold more than anything else, and don’t go around wearing flowers and other nonsense. It was quite amusing at the time, until he crowned her, of course. I had never heard such silence before or since.”

“ _ She _ was crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“How have you not heard this before? Is it a secret from where you’re from?” she asked, her tone harsh. “Small folk across the Seven Kingdoms have heard some version of this story before.”

“I-”

“It makes no matter. Everyone’s already dead. I suppose the past is at your leisure to learn.” Jon thought he heard a bitterness in her tone. He remembered being told that she lost her sons in the war…

Lightning struck again somewhere outside, and the mural seemed to mock them in the glow. The unfinished faces were taunting and jeering at the viewer: the past that never was.

The Captain of the Guards arrived not long after that. He had bushy, red sideburns which were combed out further than the hair on his head, making him look as though he were a whiskery cat. “My Lady,” he greeted, his voice was low and gravelly. “I have sent twenty of my men to the village this morning as you asked.”

“Very good. Have any reported back?” She held her head higher as she spoke and her voice perked up with the effort.

“Erhm, no. The village is a quarter day’s worth of hard riding. I don’t expect to hear anything until tonight.”

“Then alert me as soon as you know. Oh! And do tell Mavery that she’ll have to cut back on her veal and pork meals for the next few months on your way back. This storm cut me off before I could find her.”

The Captain bowed and strolled off, back from where he came.

“We should go back now,” Shella Whent sighed, rising from her seat. She needed the extra help of the armrest to lift herself from the deep cushions.

They walked back towards the King’s Tower, slower than they had been before. Jon could feel the energy from Lady Whent drain as she walked through the pouring rain. She never bothered to shield herself from it. 

They walked up several flights of stairs, past his guest chamber before coming back to the Lady’s solar. He noted that there was a light in Brynden’s room.

Lady Whent sat on another settee facing the fireplace while Jon found a place to sit in an armchair next to her. The image before him, an old lady, soaked to the bone, staring long into a fire, made him feel sorry for her. He thought it would be better if she were being stern or suspicious of him.

Things were quiet for a while between the two. The wind and rain pounding on the large windows while the fire crackled before them, sent Jon into a lull. His body felt incredibly tired. As he yawned, a servant entered the solar with a tray of piping hot food and drink. She had a warm smile on her face and gently placed her hands upon her stomach after resting the tray on the closest table.

“I’ve brought some food and tea for you, m’lady,” she spoke gently. “I heard you were put out from the rain and made something for you. I, ah, didn’t think to make anything for your guest. I’m terribly sorry. I can go right now to-”

“It’s alright,” Jon said. “I’m not hungry.”

“Thank you, Mary,” Lady Whent said. “How is your child?”

“I think I felt him kick this morning m’lady. He’s something fierce.”

“I’m sure he’ll make a fine warrior,” she said somberly. 

Mary nodded her head and dismissed herself after bringing Shella a cup of tea, leaving the two of them alone again. When they could no longer hear her footsteps on the stone steps, Shella spoke up.

“Who is your father, Jon? It’s clear you were raised well, as you can read and write. And a knight has thought you do well enough with a sword to squire you. These are not things a bastard with low upbringing would have. When you showed your face the other day, I was frightened from seeing ghosts, and I will know you for a liar if you speak anything but the truth.”

_ This is the heart of it. This is why she had me follow her all morning. I have no choice but to be honest. _

“Eddard Stark,” he said, raising his chin as he spoke.

“I asked you not to tell me lies.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Eddard Stark never struck me as a man who could dishonour himself by having a bastard.” 

Jon felt his face flush red again. He wanted to protest that he was just as honourable, with or without a bastard, but Shella cut him off.

“Do you think Ned would have helped Rhaegar commit treason against the King?”

Jon was going to answer  _ no _ , but realized as he opened his mouth that he had been one of the first to raise his troops in rebellion. The circumstances  _ were _ different, but…

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“I think it would take extraordinary circumstances for that man to do something so dishonourable as treason.”

Shella sipped her tea, leaving a long silence between them.

“Follow me,” she finally said, placing her cup and walking towards the donjon stairs. 

As they ascended, they walked past over a dozen floors by Jon’s estimation before they reached their destination. All the floors in between had been barren and empty apart from a piece of broken and dusty furniture lain strewn here or there in the chambers and halls on each level. Most of the wooden floors had not been touched in many years. A few even had footprints in the dust, which had then themselves been covered in dust. 

“Here, have a look at what you came here to see,” Lady Whent sighed as she ushered him into the chamber at the top of the tower. 

The room was a ruin. A giant crater of a hole graced the left side of the tower as Jon stepped into the pouring rain. It was clear that this was not the original penultimate room, as the crater revealed a few more floors above them, inaccessible now since the stairs they had taken broke off a few steps after this floor. The floors above hung twisted and marred, the slightest wind seemed to convince any loose stone to wiggle about. The rubble of the castle roof lay across the room with the biggest pile forming a shadow of the giant hole. One, enormous boulder of the former castle tower rested in the center of the room, covered in lichen and moss and grasses. Jon spotted a few flowers sprouting from the growth over the rocks where the crater gave the most sunlight, and even a tree of some type had taken root by the side of the boulder. If it had not been for the stray strand of lightening between the clouds at that moment, Jon would have missed the egg in all of the greener. The light glimmered and glinted off the scales, as if they were emeralds.

Jon gasped at the sight. He had never seen something so… magical. There was something so serene and calming about the image before him, despite the stormy skies. Life had sprouted from nearly every crook and cranny, and at the centre was the gemstone egg.

“Go up and have a look,” Lady Whent breathed, apparently exhausted from their climb. She stood under the remaining roof to shield herself from the rain. “The Gods know I’ve seen it a thousand times.”

Jon approached it carefully, as if he could disturb a peace that had grown in this area over the years. Water drenched his hair and dripped down his back sending a shiver through his skin. He had to step on top of another rock to reach the egg. It was smaller than he imagined it to be, no bigger than some book faces in Winterfell. As he passed his fingers over the hard surface, he was granted a warning:

“Careful of your fingers, that egg is sharp.”

Jon made to pull back his touch, but ran his index finger against the grain of the scales, breaking his skin and drawing blood. He made a faint noise of surprise before bringing his fingers closer for inspection. What he saw wasn’t so bad and he used his sleeve to clean off the blood.

“I warned you,” she said walking up to him.

“It’s sharper than it looks.”

“That thing is hundreds of years old, but you would never be able to tell…” she sighed, before getting to the matter at hand. “Why do you think I brought you here?”

“Does it have something to do with what we were talking about before?”

“Cheek,” she grinned. “Yes, it does.” She stood still, looking between the egg and the skies as rain smattered across her hair and skirts.

“Everyone who comes looking for this egg, wants to be the one who hatches it. They think that as soon as it happens, everything will fall into place and the world will be in the palm of their hand,” she cupped her hands to symbolize this to Jon. Rain began to pool in her palms. “It would never work that way,” she said, releasing the water to the ground. “Even if this damn thing were to hatch, there would always be someone to contest it. Someone with a larger army. Someone with more money. Someone with more power,” she shook her head. “It would be foolish to think hatching this would solve anything. It would only lead to more problems.”

In the distance, thunder rolled across the lake and through the trees, making her statement all the more ominous. 

“Do you think I want to hatch the egg?” Jon asked, suddenly scared of what was going through the Lady’s mind.

“No,” she said matter of factly. “I believe the knight you serve truly desires it, though.” She walked towards the hole in the wall, peering over the edge. “I believe he is using you, Jon, in ways you don’t even know.”

“I… He-”

“When I said I saw ghosts when I saw you the other day, I did not mean that of Eddard Stark.”

“My mother?”

“Yes, and your Father.”

“What- I don’t understand,” he protested.

Shella held his gaze. “Your eyes are quite different from the Stark’s grey ones, are they not?”

Jon furrowed his brow, not understanding what where she was leading him. “They’re a dark grey. Almost black”

“Is that what your Lord Father tells you?”she asked comically, mocking him. A rivlet of rain gushed down her face and across her lips. She swiped the stream away with her soaked sleeve.

Jon began to get angry.  _ What does she know about anything? _ “I know my own eyes.”

“I believe you know nothing of the sort. It’s now clear to me you don’t even know who you are.” 

Thunder cracked outside so loudly that it must have hit the castle. It was as if two mountains were churning against one another. Jon flinched, almost falling off his perch, but Shella held his gaze, absorbed in unravelling this mystery.

Before Jon could make a remark, she continued. “I remember Rhaegar’s eyes quite well. It’s hard to forget such a comely face like his, even if he destroyed my family in that damned war. He had eyes of such a deep purple that they looked black in uncertain lighting.”

Realization about what she was trying to imply dawned on Jon. It wasn’t possible though, his Father simply didn’t lie.

Jon opened his mouth to make a snide retort, but was cut off by yelling down below. It was difficult to make out what was said since they were several stories below them, but the fear and horror which filled their voices was clear as day.

Lady Whent finally broke her gaze. “We best resume this conversation later,” she said calmly before making haste towards the steps. Jon joined behind her, their conversation almost all but forgotten.

“Fire! The Lady’s... on fire! Quick! ...sand!” a voice rang out in the yard below. It was difficult to hear anything over the din of the rain and their footsteps as they made their way down.

Shella froze on the stairs, causing Jon to bump into her.

“Smoke,” she breathed as if in disbelief.

“Lady Whent!” A handmaid called. “M’ Lady!” she called again bursting through the doors, eyes frantically trying to find Shella. “The fire! It’s spread so fast! I don’t know how to get us out!”

“The back way-” Shella began. 

“It’s blocked, m’Lady! The timbers have collapsed from the storm! Oh! The Gods mean to kill us! M’Lady, why would they want to kill my babe?” It was only then that Jon noticed she was the same woman who had brought Shella her tea.

Smoke rose into the solar from between the floorboards. Jon’s heart sank as he realised his room must have been ablaze.

_ Jenny’s gift _ he mourned,  _ Brynden… Has he escaped? _

“Mary,” Shella said in a stern voice. “We are not going to die. We are simply going to wait until they put the fire out to leave. We are not going to die.”

Jon didn’t know if she was saying this to convince Mary or herself.

Shella called for his attention. “Jon! See to it that Mary can make it up the stairs. We’ll go up the tower to where the winds and rain will keep out any fire that might creep up on us.” Her eyes were cool, calm pools, her voice steady and firm. Jon knew then how he wanted to be if he were ever to be a Lord. She was convincing in her story and orders. Jon could almost believe they would be alright.

Almost.

They reached the top of the tower and he saw once again the egg, gleaming green from the light outside. The rain had slowed to a drizzle and he could see from this height that the sun had broken through the clouds in the distance. Without daring to look, he could hear the roar of flames as they found more and more items to fuel its wrath. A wind swept up the side of the tower and brought with it putrid smoke from the ruins. Jon began to cough and wheeze from inhaling it. 

The two women sat together in a covered corner where the stone roof had held on tightly. Mary wept openly onto Shella’s breast, her arms tightly hugging her womb. Shella spoke sweet nothings to her, brushing her fingers through her hair like one might do to a child. 

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be alright. It’s going to be fine. We’re okay. Everything is okay. Just take deep breaths, darling. There you go. It’s okay. It’s alright.”

Jon didn’t know where to be, so he sat down across from them and brought his knees up, hugging them closer to his chest. He held his lacerated finger up to study it and contemplate his circumstances. How could everything have gone so disastrously wrong so quickly? One minute Shella was speaking nonsense, and the next they were fleeing for their lives. He listened to Shella’s words and hoped they were true.

“Shall we pray, Mary?” Lady Shella finally asked, coaxing her into action. 

Numbly, Mary nodded her head. She grasped Lady Shella’s hand and then Jon’s, and began to sing softly with sobs breaking through every so often. Jon took Lady Shella’s other hand which she had offered to him for prayer.

Jon was familiar with the tunes they were singing, but didn’t know the words. He was sure that Sansa would know them and would have made a better companion for these ladies during this time. Instead, he stayed mute offering silent prayers to the Old Gods and the New, or any others who would listen, for a way out of this situation: for their lives to be spared.

_ Tender Mother, bare your love _

_ To your dear children ‘ere below _

_ Give us guidance from above _

_ For your mercy ‘ere to show. _

***

Brynden huffed in distaste, wading through the burnt and smoldering ruins of Harrenhal’s greatest tower with a blanket in hand. He tisked and sighed as he stepped over shrivelled carcasses of the castle’s former servants and guards, too slow to escape the blaze.

He had seen this type of ending many times before. The smells and the greasy feeling on his skin were all too familiar as he went looking for a confused and certainly terrified boy in all this debris.

Birds flit about through the smoking building, singing songs to announce the sun was rising. They were a stark contrast to the quiet sobs and weeps of stray servants and small folk walking amongst the ashes with him.

He had no idea how it was possible to survive through flames. Although he knew Daenerys had capably done it time and time again, he was never certain about what aspect about her pyre kept her safe. Was it the human sacrifice? The prayers screamed into the night? The connection between dragon and dragon rider? Jon would never talk about exactly what happened, and he wasn’t sure it was entirely his place to know.

Brynden slowly walked up the stone stairs, the two guards assigned to him the other day kept in tow. They were adamant to keep their word to their liege, when her fate was so precariously unknown as of yet. 

He noted as they walked up how some floors had remained intact while others collapsed under the heat and flame. Everything was blackened from soot except for where rain water streamed down the walls like jagged fingers.

He broke free from the circular stairs and entered into fresh air at the top. He gave himself a moment to take in the scene before him: the scorched stones and burnt bodies huddled together against the wall; the silent, naked, bald boy covered in soot, huddled away from the corpses, his head resting on his knees; and the tiny green dragon climbing upon the boy’s head, its claws leaving red marks on the boy’s skin.

Bennard fell to his knees, muttering something about fealty and swearing oaths of loyalty. Rolland stood stunned. He looked wide eyed between the charred corpses and the boy with the dragon. He slowly fell to his knees, breathing deeply to keep his nerves in check.

Brynden approached the boy slowly. He was uncertain of the flooring which seemed to hold together quite precariously under the weight of the boulders and the flames which had just engulfed it.

The boy looked up, his eyes red. There were streaks on his face from eye to chin. It was clear he had no more tears to shed as he stared helplessly up at Brynden.

“Who am I?”

The dragon cried out into the morning air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes. I have been sick for almost two weeks now, but it's given me time to write... and then rewrite... and then re-rewrite. I started so many scenes only to delete them later because they didn't bring the story in the right direction or they were too rambly (if that's a word). 
> 
> I am definitely going to give myself more time to write chapters in the new year, because this pace does not give me enough time to thoroughly examine what I've written and edit based on mood/theme/plot/character motivation/foreshadowing/everything else. I can safely say I have written three times as many words as I did for my Master's Research Paper so far, and that took me several months to research and write. X/ Maybe I'll resurrect my old twitter account to re-purpose it for updates for this story, if there's any interest?
> 
> Finally, I want to thank everyone who has stuck with me through this, and everyone who has commented, kudosed, and subscribed to this story. I hope you've seen some improvement in my writing over the last couple months, and are willing to stick around for Part 2 (tentatively calling it "the Queen of Air and Dragons") which I plan to have going in the New Year. I will still publish the "interlude" or "epilogue" chapter to wrap up Part 1, but I think I'm going to push it back from next Friday/Saturday, to it being a "Christmas Miracle" (and if you don't celebrate Christmas, then it'll be a miracle on December 25ish). 
> 
> Again, thanks!


	14. Interlude - the Queen of Air and Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it.

-Two years from now-

The winds blowing in from the north brought with it acrid smoke which Brynden had tried all morning to steer clear of. He thought he was used to the sights and smells of battle, but this was on a different scale from any war mere men could wage. 

The landscape was an eerie garden of corpses. Some were a charred mess, beaten into the ground and barely recognizable anymore. Others had been cooked alive in the flames, but remained in the panic stricken positions in which their armour had melted in. More were casualties of burns. Their screams of pain through cracked, bleeding lips would stay with Brynden well after this day was over. They reached out to him, their arms blackened and oozing blood, but he did not receive them. He came to find the King, and the pleas for death or life could not sway him from his path.

He followed the trail of shimmering scales to its deceased owner. Smoke wafted up from its mouth and wounds. Its deeply mutilated body glistened as the sun broke through the clouds, making it a beacon for any who might avenge their fallen leader. 

He knew he would find Jaehaerys there in mourning.

“Is this what you wanted?” Jaehaerys asked as Brynden approached. He breathed uneasily.

He sat, leaning against the barrel of the dragon’s chest looking up at him, his body limp and defeated. His hair was shorter than was the norm, with frizzled tips and straight roots. An uneven patch of white hair grew around the top of his hairline. “Was this your _ plan _?” he spat.

Brynden raised an eyebrow. “My plan is neither to torment you, nor get you killed. You seem to have been in a precarious situation, here. I hope I will have advised against doing this exact thing.”

“You did, but it didn’t matter. Your words don’t move me like they once did.” He shook his head disgust. “You don’t care about anyone else. So long as you get your desired outcome, you could let a hundred thousand people die.”

“Yes, if it meant the rest of humanity could survive.”

He gritted his teeth looking away into the distance, scanning his eyes over the destruction he caused. “I suppose I’m no different, then.” Jaehaerys opened his palms to the sky, as if to show he was unarmed - defenseless. “I would kill them all again for what he did. I would hear his screams again as his skin slowed off his bones if it meant I could bring her back.”

“Who was she?”

He looked back up at him, his eyes hard as if his question was worthy of death. “She w-was,” his voice was shuddered. “She was the air I breathed.” His words were barely a whisper. He pulled his knees up to his chest and sat forward, speaking no more about his past - Brynden’s future.

Whoever she was, she had left a dark pall upon Jaehaerys for as long as Brynden had known him. Even when he was able to love again, there was scarcely a night where he would not wake in a sweat. 

Brynden watched him as Rolland and Bennard came riding into the field, their sombre but composed faces told Brynden they had seen this before. They brought with them two extra horses for them to flee.

“We should go before Robert mops up whatever’s left,” Jaehaerys said, avoiding eye contact. He moved towards his King’s Guard with a limp before pulling himself into the saddle. He didn’t spare Brynden a glance as he turned and rode off, Rolland close behind.

Bennard waited patiently, reins ready to hand off to him. Brynden shook his head as he approached. So many dead. A dragon too, not to mention.

Pulling himself in the saddle, he tried to think of how best to avoid this scenario. Was it even possible to avert this ending? It would be infinitely better if there were three dragons alive to fight the White Walkers as they descended upon the realm.

That was not to mention the antagonistic relationship Brynden had found himself in with Jaehaerys. Whenever he had urged him to do something which would positively affect the future, Jaehaerys had been adamantly opposed to hearing him out. It was a struggle to know how or what to say if everything he said was dismissed. 

_ Something must needs be done. If he cannot heed my warnings nor avoid this tragic fate with the dragons, then I must do something differently to change it. _

He thought of Duncan and Aegon in that moment. How was it that Duncan earned so much respect from Egg, despite being thick as a wall? _ I have twice as much cunning and knowledge and yet… _

_ No matter how much I learned about her… I was never able to completely woo her. _

He had to try doing things differently. He had to act in the best interest of Jaehaerys, earn his trust, or else it will lead to disaster. 

_ The end will be no different from any other time, and I will have failed in my duty. _

Brynden knew he had to change in order for the change he wanted to occur, but to know how to do it was… more challenging than he wanted to admit.

As Bennard experienced Brynden travelling with them, back to their camp, Brynden decided on a softer approach to Jaehaerys. He often forgot that Jaehaerys was getting younger the longer he lived. Perhaps he should ask more about his past, his experiences, and be more forthcoming with his own. 

Brynden pulled himself off his horse and followed Jaehaerys towards the fallen dragon, is maw agape. Jae sat down and rested his head against the body of the dragon, weariness clear in his eyes.

Brynden nodded his head.

“We should go before Robert mops up whatever’s left.”

There was a silence as the two stared across the field of slaughter as Rolland and Bennard left their sight.

“She was my Queen in all but name, and she…”

“I am truly sorry about what happened,” Brynden said breaking the silence.“I know what it’s like to lose the one you love. There’s not a thing in the world that can make the hurt go away except time. What happened was undeserved to such a young woman such as she.”

There were quiet as a breeze passed by. It brought with it the smell of smoke, cooked meat, and entrails. Fires still burned in the forest surrounding the field and was threatening to get out of hand. Jaehaerys brought his knees up and rested his chin on his knees.

“What happened today was that another brought about his own destruction. He gave a foolish order and destroyed himself and most of his army for it. He was a child flailing around when his toy was taken. Not an adult. Not a king.”

“I am not going to lecture you like some wizened crone about the evils of war. I don’t believe war is evil in every circumstance. No. It is a necessity sometimes. Especially when another starts it.

“I am not here for apologies or excuses from you. You are the king. You make decisions which others must follow - sometimes to their demise. It is not your place to question your every step. To do so would only lead to stagnation, as every action you take would be deliberated into oblivion. Every action has a potential negative outcome, just as it can have a positive one. You must take action, despite the repercussions, to do what must be done. 

“This was brash of me. I should have heard someone out before I-”

“That’s not what I’m here for either.”

“I didn’t want to kill it but… It was going to kill us, and I couldn’t…”

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“It’s done. He’s done. It won’t happen again.”

As Brynden walked away from Jaehaerys, he realized that change was in the air. This was not the man who dismissed him at any hint of a disagreement. Was this a bane or a boon? 

Only time -his past and Jaehaery's future - would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holidays have been much busier than I anticipated and I wasn't able to find too much time to write. I was finally able to get this done! I've never written something like this before and am hoping it made sense to everyone who read it. (Not in the 'flow of time' sense but in the, 'I understand what is happening' sense.)
> 
> Also, if you're interested, I will be giving updates about the story on an old twitter account, @Bettycrocker991, since there doesn't seem to be a function to do so here. It will just be about updating the story and tidbits about upcoming chapters, so no pressure and no hard feelings to follow or not.
> 
> I hope everyone is having a relaxing holiday season, and will have a Happy New Year! I will be taking a break for a couple weeks to get the next part's chapters in order and to write a few chapters before posting here again. I will keep you who are interested updated through twitter. Otherwise, see you next year!


	15. Chapter 13: Kings Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Harrenhal has finally reached Kings Landing.

_ The whore  _ was _ pregnant _ , Robert thought as Jon reported back to him. He had found a shapely young woman in one of Little Finger’s establishments, and had bedded her for several months whenever his wife was in a sour mood - which was most nights. He had stopped seeing her when she began to complain of stomach cramps and pains. He had sent Jon to investigate the aftermath of his affairs and his suspicions were confirmed.

He was mildly jubilant at the thought of a babe. The thought of their tiny limbs and stubby fingers grasping blindly for something to cling to made him smile softly as he sat slouched in his solar, basking in the hot afternoon sun streaming in through the open window.

_ Another bastard in the litter… I best hope Cersei doesn’t find out about this one… _

“There’s one other matter, Robert,” Jon said interrupting his thoughts. “Ser Manfred of House Manning has asked for your presence to speak of what he saw before poor Lady Whent passed. He said it was quite important that he hold an audience with you.”

“You’re the Hand. He can speak with you, can he not?” Robert asked, placing his fingers to his temple.

“He specifically asked for you.”

“Blast,” Robert muttered at the news. Every Tom, Dick and Jane at the spur of social mobility were prostrating themselves at him like pigs in heat. It was not everyday that a great household with a great castle died out, and these people were like lions to a kill. “What more can we know? Was it not the thunderstorm which took her life? Does he expect me to seek justice from the Gods? The title ‘Storm Lord’ falls far short of that!”

“I believe he has more knowledge on the subject than we do at present. He mentioned having supped with the Lady the night before her death in the presence of additional guests.”

“Additional guests?” He quoted back at Jon. “Does he mean to say these  _ guests _ summoned a storm?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

Robert grunted in frustration, heaving himself into an upright position in his chair. “All he wants is to be in my good graces to grant him a piece of Harrenhal pie.”

“Even still, Robert,” Jon spoke, frustration tinged the edges of his tone. “You should hear what he has to say and  _ then _ decide if he is false or true.”

“Yes, yes,” Robert dismissed him, waving his hand as if to brush him away. “I’ll hear him privately here, if it makes you happy. Just leave me to have a few moments of peace and quiet before I truly have to deal with Harrenhal.”

_ That damned castle will be the end of me. _

“I’ll have him here in a moment then. You may also want to speak to Varys to confirm what Manning has to say.”

Robert grunted in agreement before Jon bowed and exited the room. 

Houses Pyne and Crabb and Hardy had all made advances, tried to show how loyal they were and how much they deserved Harrenhal over the others. None of them deserved it. He had barely known they existed until they crawled out of the woodwork of the Crownlands and begged his attention. It made him sick. Angry. It was close to the feeling he had on the verge of a battle. It was the feeling he had at Harrenhal on  _ that _ day. He loathed to think on it. He supposed that was why any mere  _ mention _ of Harrenhal struck a nerve. 

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, composing himself. He was the King. He needed to act as one as well.

Robert picked up a goblet of wine and walked towards the vista view in his solar, scratching his belly absentmindedly. The lands, as far as his eye could see and then farther still, were his to command for over a decade. 

He was tired of it all. 

He was tired of the whispers of the court, tired of constant nagging by Jon about his duties, tired of his loveless marriage, and tired of the damned Lannisters sinking their teeth into everything. The only thing that made him feel  _ something _ was when he whored and drank and ate fine food. As king, he was able to enjoy vast quantities of all three, but when he woke the next morning and saw the letters on his desk or was dragged to meetings of the small council, his appetite for relief only grew more. He barely recalled his histories of the kings that came before him, but he knew for a certainty that a whoring drunkard of a king was better than a mad one.

_ Jon can plead all he wants for me to sober up and act honourably. He’s the one who put me here, so now I’ll do as I please. He can clean the mess up for me as the Hand. _

There was a knock at the door.

“Your Grace,” Jon called from beyond the metal and wooden door. He insisted on calling him that in the presence of others. “Ser Manfred Manning is here to see you.”

“Let him in,” Robert called as he sat back down at his desk, placing his wine carefully in front of himself. He pretended to be more interested in the goblet than he was as Manning entered the room. He wanted to hear how he would begin the thinly veiled conversation about inheriting Harrenhal. Jon entered behind Manning, placing himself at the edge of the door frame, ready for a swift exit if need be.

“Your Grace,” Manning said hesitantly, bowing deeply before noticing Robert’s attention was not on himself. “I’m sorry to bother you at this moment, but I felt this information was too important to remain… well, unknown.”

“Do you know who made this cup?” Robert asked, ignoring Manning.

“N-no… I can’t say I do.”

“The Reynes commissioned five hundred identical pieces. All of them gold, encrusted in rubies and diamonds. It’s quite ugly if you ask me, but holds a larger amount of wine than any of the delicate, piss-water glasses they have here.”

Robert looked up at the man, Manning.  _ Manfred Manning: what a name. Did his parents have brains the size of a bird’s? _ He was rather unimposing, but dressed well and might have been mistaken for someone of higher standing. A look of confusion began growing on his face. With his brows properly furrowed, Robert continued.

“When their House was wiped out, all but two of these glasses were destroyed. I have one and Tywin-fucking-Lannister holds the other. Though I doubt he ever drinks from it.”

“I… I see,” Manfred said, unclear as to what he was implying.

“Do you? You look more confused than if I had simply sat here and pissed myself! I don’t think you understand what I mean: I don’t care about petty squabbles. I don’t care about inheritance, and I especially don’t care about ruined castles. When everything is said and done, I will be sitting here drinking fine wines from the remnants of petty squabbles. So say what you have to say to me and make it quick. I rather doubt your time here will be beneficial.”

“Your Grace… I don’t know what you have heard, or what you think I’m here to say, but… I’m not here to claim any castle.”

_ A Lord who doesn’t want anything? Is there such a thing? _

“Then spit it out.”

“I-er. There was a knight and a young boy seated with Lady Whent and I at dinner the night before she… Before she… well-”

“Yes, yes, before she died.”

“Yes,” Manfred quickly agreed. He thought it best to push that sorry thought aside. He was rather fond of Lady Whent. She had had a rather austere exterior, but was always there when his House needed extra grain or when he needed advice about this or that. “Something quite peculiar happened that day with the boy. And I didn’t see it first hand, but I saw from a distance and a servant of mine, who’s quite trustworthy, confirmed the rumours for me: a flock of ravens-”

Jon “tsked” in the back.  _ Gods, sometimes he reminded him of Stannis _ , Robert thought.

“-had lined up for the boy and flew off as soon as he walked by.”

Robert tilted his head to the side, studying the man again. He didn’t seem to be ill or weak of mind. “Do you know what the punishment is, for lying to your king?”

“Is it death, your Grace?”

“It depends on the severity. Right now, I’m leaning towards sending you off to the Wall so you can help fight off all the grumkins and snarks with those raven Black Brothers.”

“Please, your Grace,” Manfred pleaded, pursing his lips as he thought quickly for an answer. “Nothing spoken here is a lie, I promise you on my son’s life. I could hardly believe it myself if I had not seen the absurd amount of birds flying through the air that day.”

Robert huffed. “Fine! Let’s say you are  _ not _ lying and this is all the truth. What in the name of the Seven can I do with this information? Hmm? Should I call a search for a Raven Boy who may or may not have something to do with the fires at Harrenhal?”

“There’s… There’s more your Grace,” Manfred conceded, nearly worn out from this short visit with the King.

Robert sighed and brought the cup to his mouth, taking a deep drink of wine. He asked for Jon to bring over more before Manfred could continue.

“Well, what is left to say?”

“The egg, your Grace… The egg in the stone is gone.”

Robert choked slightly on the wine passing down his throat. “Hic-What!?” he roared. “I swear Manfred-fucking-Manning if one word of this is false I will have you-”

“Your Grace,” Jon interrupted. “Perhaps you should speak to your Master of Whispers before you seek justice here.”

Robert near growled at Jon in his rage.

_ The egg? The egg! Now I know he means to upset me! See me seeth in displeasure for his amusement! _

“Is this all?” Robert snarled through tight lips. His hand held too tightly onto his chalice, turned red from the effort.

“I-” Manfred began, his heart pounding in his head. Manning could feel the room begin to swim around him. He had only ever felt this way when his father threatened to beat him as a child. He thought he was done with being so weak. “I wanted to… to confirm that the egg was gone. So I… So I…” He reached out towards the back of a chair to steady himself. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and his limbs felt too heavy to move.

“Out! Out with it!”

“I sent my man to confirm,” Manfred continued. “He found the remains of Lady Whent and her handmaiden, and egg shell in the tower.” Manfred looked up at Robert, trying to look him in the eye as best he could to deliver how serious he was about this message. “The dragon has been hatched.”

He collapsed a moment later from stress.

“Why has he fallen!?” Robert roared. The scene before him of a well dressed man fainting from shock or stress or both left him angry. “Jon! Send someone in to take him away! Manfred-fucking-Manning the Dandy!”

After calling the Kingsguard, Jon turned to Robert quite concerned. “Robert,” he said in a calm, hushed tone. “We need to know if this is true. There have been various reports of sightings of all types of things in the last fortnight, but none of them have given me as much pause as this.”

As Ser Merryn Trant and Mandon Moore carried Manfred out of the room, Robert shook his head. “There haven’t been dragons in eons. The last man to try was burnt alive for it. He was a damned Targaryen King and still unsuccessful. You mean to tell me some nobody from the Riverlands has hatched a dragon? Or worse still, that Dragon spawn has been harboured there all this time?” he drank deeply from his cup. “No. He lies. He must be trying to drag me down with them.”

“Robert,” Jon protested. “Convene a Small Council meeting at least about this!”

Robert huffed and gruffed but eventually agreed to bring the Small Council together to discuss matters further.

Later that afternoon, Jon, Pycelle, Petyr, Renly, Stannis, Varys, and Barristan had seated themselves about the Council table, none offering any words of greeting as each entered the room and took their seat. 

“Aren’t we cheery today?” Renly quipped, but only received Stannis’s stern look of disapproval for it.

At last, Robert burst into the Chamber. He brushed by everyone taking his place at the head of the table without any decorum. Grinding his teeth, he asked Jon to set the stage.

Recounting what had been said in Robert’s solar earlier that day. There was more than a few tsks and air being sucked through teeth during his exposition. When Jon was done, he asked for Varys’s thoughts on the matter.

“Your Grace,” Varys said with his soft, sighing voice. “I’ve heard a great deal from my Little Birds across the Riverlands and none have reported anything so severe. I can assure you, if I had, you would be the first to know.”

“I asked you for your thoughts, not excuses for why you didn’t hear this,” Jon commented.

“Of course,” Varys said, tilting his head down in respect. “I think it’s rather a flight of fancy from a man of weak constitution. He was obviously distraught from Lady Whent’s untimely death and must have made some story up to have it all make sense.”

“He seemed a rather reasonable man to me,” Renly protested. “We spoke earlier today, and he seemed rather clear-headed when I asked after himself and his family.”

“I’m sure we all know that reason can leave us in the most dire of circumstances. This poor man must have suffered terribly in the last few weeks,” Varys concluded.

“That,” Stannis bristled. “Is not good enough for the matter at hand. It was bad enough that we heard all these stories coming out from Harrenhal and the surrounding area and simply did nothing about it. But now, when we hear that the worst possible fate has happened, we pass it off as tall tales and a case of curious imagination? We must investigate this further!”

“Fine orders from the Master of Ships,” sneered Petyr. “Do you propose we march an army into the Riverlands? Ignoring the ramifications it would cause with Lord Tully, where do you suppose the Crown could find the coin for this?”

“ _ I, _ ” Stannis spat. “Am suggesting we do something rather than nothing! We all know you would rather stay in your Houses of Sin rather than make any actual sacrifices for-”

“Enough!” Robert bellowed. “We could be at war with a false king! I will not have you fighting here amongst yourselves!” It was enough to make Stannis sit back and be content with tapping his fingers against the table. Petyr leaned back and smirked across at Stannis. 

“Now,” Jon said, his eyes narrowed looking for any other sign of discontent. “There is either a false king roaming the Riverlands, or, if the Gods are merciful, there is not. I suggest we find definitive proof of either option.”

“I’ll send the Kingsguard to-”

“I would suggest otherwise, Ser Barristan,” Jon interjected. “Your Guards are much too valuable to be sent on this type of excursion.”

“What good do they do, here? Standing around all the time for nothing!” Robert sneered.

“They  _ stand around _ ,” Jon replied, biting back his anger. “To protect you, your Grace. If anyone who wished to cause you harm knew that you weren’t guarded night and day, you would be in danger.”

Robert grumbled his distaste.

“Not to mention,” Pycelle rasped from the far end of the table. “That sending them would most likely be a fool’s errand! Dragons have not been hatched since the days of Aegon III in 153 AC, if I do recall correctly. There is nothing to suggest that dragons would make an appearance again! We have taught and will continue to teach at the Citadel that magic is-”

“All the more reason to put a stopper to the rumours once and for all, then,” Stannis said through tight lips, cutting Pycelle off.

“Fine!” Robert bellowed. “I’ll send a regiment to find the truth of the matter!”

“Might I suggest a smaller band of men, your Grace?” Petyr asked. “Fewer men means fewer expenses. Not to mention they can travel faster over large distances.”

“A few men can hardly cover the ground needed to find the truth of the matter,” Stannis protested further. “We need the River Lords to swear fealty to the Crown to ensure any false Kings will not be harboured there against us!”

“Would alerting the Lords to another King be beneficial for us?” Renly asked while cleaning under his fingernails. “It’s well known many supported the Targaryens the last time there was one. There’s nothing to suggest they wouldn’t renege their vows and sweet words of loyalty.”

“It is better that we  _ in _ form them, than  _ mis _ inform them,” Stannis retorted, eyes narrowing. “Or worse yet, keep an enemy secret to those who call our brother King.”

“Then a compromise may be reached,” Varys interjected before Renly could respond. “We remind the Lords of their fealty to the Throne once more and for them to stay alert to anything suspicious. We can also send men to areas which may not have as many eyes and ears as I need to keep us all informed.”

“Any objections to this?” Robert said, eyeing the men at the table. All seemed to agree, however begrudgingly, with Varys. “Then Barristan, I want you to find a few men for hire to  _ discreetly _ investigate the claims made about Harrenhal. I want them able to report back their findings, and I want them able to  _ deal _ with anything they may find. Do you understand?”

Ser Barristan bowed his head. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Good. I want everyone else to bring Jon or I any information they might hear about what’s happening in the Riverlands -  _ any _ news about dragonspawn and I want to know about it! I’ll crush them like I did the last time.”

As the Council excused themselves from the room, Varys couldn’t help but sigh in frustration.

_ All those years of planning. All those secrets kept. This little hatchling King could ruin our plans…  _

_ Best to revise them. I should call on my friend... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I got a LOT of feedback from my last chapter! lol
> 
> I meant for it to be a bit confusing, but not to the point where it impeded enjoyment of it. I pinky-swear to keep the backwards story-telling to a minimum. It was something different and fun for me to write, and I didn't mean for it to be difficult to grasp.
> 
> Going forward, I will have a lot more chapters from people who aren't named Jon. I realize this chapter jumped around between Robert and Manfred and Varys, but this won't be standard practice in the future. I was rereading Jonathan Strange and Mr.Norrell, and the omniscient narrator voice sort of got transplanted here as I wrote this chapter. I'm loathe to get rid of Manfred's small part, so I kept it. And then added Varys, of course, since we all need more schemes in our lives :D
> 
> I'll be posting chapters this year every two weeks (or try my best to). Thanks for sticking around, guys! I can't believe this story has reached over 11000 hits, even though I know it's probably just one person clicking refresh every thirty seconds XD 
> 
> Thank you kind stranger(s).
> 
> Next will be a Daenerys chapter.


	16. Chapter 14: Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, this is the story all about how Dany's life got flipped, turned upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied physical abuse and overt verbal abuse. Read with care if these trigger you. There isn't a point in this chapter where it every really 'ends', so I can't tell you to skip a certain section. Sorry. This is Dany's life right now.

Daenerys still remembered the warmth and security of having a home to call her own. A scene played out in her mind as she thought of her childhood: Ser Willem Darry ordering servants about in his gruff voice on the veranda; Viserys happily playing at swords in the small courtyard with the vines, which climbed up the side of the stone building; herself, reaching up for Willem to place her on his lap to read her a story. The house with the red door held sweet memories - even the time she ate a lemon thinking it would taste like an orange. Her brother had laughed so hard that he began to retch. It made it all the more devastating for the position she and Viserys were currently in.

For years they had been flitting from city to city, household to household, street to street - in the pursuit of a home. 

A family to take them in was difficult and fleeting to find. Viserys had promised the noble households of the Free Cities lands and riches beyond their wildest dreams, if only they house and feed them, and support them when he took back their family’s throne in Westeros. It was not long before they realized that their brief stays with these families was purely for their entertainment. His propositions were never truly considered. 

They were a spectacle. The last Targaryens: orphaned and alone to take advantage of. Viserys had not liked that, but they didn’t have much of a choice. It was either beg for favours in their homes, or beg for money in the streets. The choice was easy.

Even now as Daenerys held still as older women poked and preened at her, twirled and tugged at her hair and smeared their fingers over her late mother’s crown, she could close her eyes and pretend they were the servants under Ser Willem’s. Not the same servants who destroyed his house, stealing everything worth stealing in the moments after he passed. They would be servants who were kind and caring and loved Daenerys just as much as she would love them.

“Are you quite sure this is a Targaryen? I’ve seen prettier slave girls in Lys.” A man with a blue beard shaped into two downwards cones commented in Bastard Valyrian. 

“Of course it must be. She wears such an elegant crown upon her head,” the lady next to him pointed out, stroking it with her fingers. She wore an ivory, cloth scarf loosely draped around her head with strings of purple beads draped about her neck, hips, and arms. She glinted in the torch light with every movement. It made Daenerys seem rather drab with her muted tone dress. “The Morettis’ wouldn’t have been so easily fooled, anyhow. I believe she must be true, if _ they _ believe it.”

Daenerys sat, staring at the wall, trying to pretend she didn’t understand what they were saying. She glanced up at the woman as she passed her fingers down her face, gently caressing her cheek and chin. She smiled up at her with what she hoped was a pleasing face. She didn’t want to make a scene.

_ We’re blood of the Dragon! They should be bowing down to us! _

She could hear her brother protest in her head. He was across the room, drink in hand, telling tales of Westeros: the smallfolk pray for the false king to be dead at night and spit at the thought of him during the day. They yearn for Targaryen rule once more. He could make them all rich beyond their dreams, Lords even, if only they give him money for swords.

“A generous proposal. We shall think on it, I assure you!”

Their thoughts tended to last years, and goodwill ran dry even sooner. They moved around as the rich merchants and Magisters lost patience with him. They were just more names for Viserys to add to his list of people to execute for treason once he had his throne.

“You have such a beautiful smile, dove,” the lady spoke in the Common Tongue. Her voice had lilting consonants and long vowels which accompanied a Valyrian accent.“You should smile more my dear. It might attract more people to your brother’s cause.” 

Daenerys tried to broaden her smile, but her heart ached too much at her comment to be much more than a feeble effort.

“There. So pretty,” the lady smiled back. Her hand cupped her face and she could feel the woman’s long nails dig into her cheek. “So is that crown of yours. I know a few men who would pay large sums of coin to have that upon their own wife’s head. Seek us out, the _ Pisanos _,” she emphasized, “if you ever want to sell.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys squeaked, scared at the thought of losing the last thing which connected her to her mother. “But I don’t think my brother would ever part from it.”

“Everyone has their price. Everyone has their limit.” The Pisano Lady squeezed her face once more, nails biting in, before leaving with her husband to speak to others in the room. 

Viserys had found the Morettis a fortnight ago, and convinced them to invest some of their time on the last two Targaryens. Trello Morettis, a Magister, had thought it a splendid idea to add Dragon cubs to a party he was hosting to entertain his young daughter on her name day. His daughter loved stories of Princes and Princesses and Dragons. The entire event was made to feel as though one was in Ancient Valyria and Cloth Dragons of all sizes and colours hung from the ceiling, clung to the walls, and were draped upon tables and chairs. They were exquisitely made, near to what she thought a real Dragon might look like.

Only these would burn. 

Earlier in the evening, they had been presented with children’s plays by Pentos’ top actors. There were Dragons who spoke, Dragons who roared, Dragons who let humans ride them. There were Princesses who were stolen by Dragons, Princes who rescued them and slayed the Dragon. And there were Targaryens, who died to the Dragons. 

Daenerys looked away for those scenes. She noticed her brother tightened his jaw and ground his teeth together, his expression growing dark.

She suddenly felt sick of Dragons. If she was not a Targaryen herself, she thought she might have done away with ever thinking of them again. She decided instead to listen to the troupe of singers, set to entertain Magister Moretti’s guest until the sun rose the next morning.

They played songs alternately between Westerosi and Valyrian. While she loved the vocal sounds of the Valyrian melodies, she found herself more drawn towards the Westerosi folk songs, which painted a picture of her home she had never seen. A melody caught her attention, and she listened intently upon the lyrics:

“As I roved out on a Maiden’s Day

To pick the choicest flowers

I met my love upon the way

In the early hours”

_ It must be a love song _, she thought, stepping closer to hear better. 

“Such a sad tale,” A large man sighed walking up beside her. He had shocking blonde hair with a beard which was divided in two at the bottom, as was the fashion, but was not dyed. He held a goblet of red wine and sipped on it ever so gently. His other hand he rested on the top of his stomach, tapping his fingers in time to the music. He was a large man, and his gut bulged out in a way which made Dany think he’d just eaten an entire pig before coming here. His tunic was made of fine silk, and had threaded detailings of a sword and bird upon the front. “I would play it, nevertheless, for my own daughter to think on. If I had one, of course,” he smiled, flashing his yellowing teeth. The man had an accent as he spoke to her in the Common Tongue, but did well pronouncing consonants in a Westerosi fashion. He must have travelled through Westeros, or at least learned from a Westerosi before, she knew.

“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, unsure of who this man was.

“Listen, dear girl. Here comes the twist before the spiral downwards.”

“...With the root of a weirwood twig

She was the well beat daughter.”

_ That isn’t so bad, _ Daenerys thought earnestly. She had been beaten a dozen times, and thought the use of a weirwood twig might have been a blessing. Her eyebrows raised up as a hint of a frown formed upon her lips.

“Not impressed?” the large man asked, generally surprised. He showed his teeth again with a smile, “I suppose we all have different ideas of what is bad, then. But listen on, dear girl, the story isn’t over yet.”

“...I can't marry you my darling lass

I can't marry you my honey

For I have got a wife at home

And how can I disown her?”

Dany sighed. It was not a love song after all, but a moral tale. Young girls shouldn't kiss boys until they’re married. She already knew that. She just wanted to pretend for a moment that two people could love each other despite their circumstances. Wasn’t that what songs were about? Myths and Fantasies?

“Disappointed?”

“I-” she began, hesitant about upsetting this man. _ Did he want me to like the song? _ “I prefer songs about heroes and love.”

“But this is a love song? Did you not hear?”

“But… the man had a wife,” she said confused. Was he playing games? This had happened to her before. A lady in Lys with hair as golden white as hers made her think her lies were truths and what she saw, false. 

“Did they not love each other at the beginning?”

“But he lied,” she said. It was more of a question than a statement.

“You are young,” the large man said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't mean to, but she moved away from his touch. The large man frowned in displeasure. “Beautiful, but young. All love brings with it lies, dear girl. Let me start over with a truth, then. I am Illyrio Mopatis. I have been speaking on and off with your brother for over a year now. Testing the waters, so to speak. I have heard many things about you, Daenerys, but the whispers I hear do not express just how beautiful you are in person.”

“Th-Thank you,” she stuttered. The man made her feel uncomfortable, the way many older men did when they touched her face or body. A feeling not unlike a dozen insects climbing on her skin over took her whenever that happened. She remembered once trying to get away, backing up slowly to not raise any suspicions, but her brother had caught her.

_ You must smile and be pleasant for these people. If they want to touch you, let them touch you. You don’t want to wake the Dragon, do you? _

She feigned a smile, trying to compose herself. “You’re very kind.”

He nodded his head in acceptance of her compliment. 

The troupe had finished the last note of the moral song, and began to play a different tune, this time in Valyrian. 

“Tell me, Daenerys,” Illyrio asked with a sudden change in tone. “Have you heard anything about what has been happening in Westeros recently? Has anyone here come to you making promises or alliances?”

“N-” she began. Was this man a friend of Viserys? Should she lie? She couldn’t see what harm the truth could do. “The-the Lady in the white scarf over there,” she pointed. “Came to offer to buy my m-mother's crown.”

“I see,” he mused, stroking his long beard. “There will be many offers to take you and your brother in, over the coming weeks as the news starts to spread… But I would like to be the first, and perhaps only choice you two need take.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You will in due course, dear girl. But you must listen to what I have to say now, and promise you will heed my words.”

“I don’t know-”

“Stay with the Moretti’s until such a time as when they send you two to the streets. Instead of searching for another household to stay in or begging for food scraps in the market, come to my manse,” he put his fingers and thumb on her chin, tilting her head up to look at him in the eye. “I can assure you, you will not regret it. I have friends in high places and treasures which only the Blood of the Dragon can make use of,” he said, releasing his grip. “Illyrio Mopatis keeps his word.”

Daenerys was unnerved. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing from when he had her in his grip. “I should go f-find my brother,” she stuttered. She nearly stumbled across the room trying to get away from him. She looked back briefly to spie if he was coming after her, but he was nowhere to be seen. For a large man, he was quick to disappear.

Dany had barely taken anything he said in. She just wanted to get away. Something about “the Blood of the Dragon” and “treasure”. Her thoughts were short and frantic, like a mouse running and jumping left and right, trying to escape capture.

She found her brother in a conversation with a group of men, all with dyed, blue beards and illustrious clothes. She wanted to ask for a moment of his time, to query him about Illyrio, but never got the chance.

“Ah, Daenerys! My sweet sister! Here she is and our dear mother’s crowning jewels!” Viserys smiled, showing her off to his audience. He grabbed her arms to more smoothly guide her to the centre of the group.

“Her eyes look so scared,” one man muttered to another in Valyrian. This earned her Viserys’ nails biting into her arm to smile.

She tried her best to unhinge her jaw and calm her thoughts, but knew she was failing. 

“What can you do, child?” another man asked in the Common Tongue. “Do you sing? Do you play an instrument? Do you dance?”

“I-”

“She has a lovely singing voice!” Viserys interrupted. “Takes after our brother, Prince Rhaegar. She sounds just like a little bird!”

“Sing for us, girl. We would love something pretty to admire.”

In the end, she had disappointed her brother. She could barely spout anything out over the din of the troupe already playing songs in the background, nor could she fight her sudden dose of fear. Viserys had released his grip and told her in a hushed voice to leave his sight and not let him see her for the rest of the evening. Daenerys happily obliged and ran back to the guest room she had been provided.

She had just managed to fall asleep when her brother stumbled into her room. He was drunk and angry, the two things which frightened Daenerys most when they were alone together.

“I thought you knew!” he hissed, eyes ablaze, hair disheveled. “Not to wake the dragon!”

***

“This is _ your _ damn fault!” Viserys screamed at her as they stood in the streets with the few bags of items they had between themselves. 

The Morettis’ maid had found her the next morning, her lip broken with bruises down her body. She reported this to the Lady of the House who then reported it to her husband who had questioned his serving staff, and then threw Viserys out of their house. They had offered to let Daenerys stay for the time being. They would even set up a match for her with one of their good friend’s children. She had ultimately refused. She wanted to be with family, no matter how much she suffered or how much he could scare her. 

Viserys was all she had left.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, truly apologetic. She hadn’t known the maid would arrive to bring her food if she skipped their morning meal. She would have tried to hide herself better had she known.

“Where are we supposed to go now!” Viserys thundered, balling his fists up. “We haven’t had to beg in the streets for almost a year now, thanks to _ my _ efforts! Of course you wouldn’t be thankful for it! You haven’t had to do a damn thing in your life! You just reap everything I sow! You’re a worthless, thankless little girl that should never have been born! You always ruin everything!” His face was aflame with rage. Spittle flew from his mouth as he cursed her.

Daenerys was on the verge of tears. She had been lambasted like this before, but it always hurt each time he carved into her.

“I’m sorry,” she said again as her lip twitched with a sob, still aching slightly.

“_ You _ find us something this time! _ You _find us a family to take us to Westeros. It is not so easy as I make it look. If you cannot find someone by nightfall, do not bother coming back at all!” he declared. 

“Bu- But the streets…”

“_ The streets. The streets _” he whined mockingly. “I don’t care who you might run into. I do not care about your honour. I would have sold you to any man in that room last night. If you were truly a loving sister, you would do anything to make sure I take back our family’s throne!”

That had been enough to send her running away, fighting back tears, in search of someone to take them in.

_ There was that… that woman and her husband. And… And the man… _

She tried to take deep breaths to think straight, but it wasn’t working. She was out of air as she passed the fourth large Manse on the outskirts of the city. The estates of Pentos sprawled out along the rolling hills of the city, with high red walls encircling lush gardens and lavish mansions. The bruises on her body were aching as she came to a halt; her breathing, laboured. It was not often that she had to run and the marks on her body made it worse.

On the front of the gates was a sigil she recognized, but could not immediately place: a golden sword was crossed behind a bird in flight.

A large, imposing man sprang to the forefront of her mind and she remembered: _ Illyrio Mopatis. _

A pit began to form in her gut as she thought of what to do. Should she find strangers to take them in, or ask Illyrio for help? Neither option seemed any good.

_ Should I keep walking? _

She wanted to be brave. She wanted to hold her head high as she made her decision. She wanted her breaths to be even and her hands to be steady; eyes clear as the sky was above her, now. Dany was successful at first. She would look for herself and see what type of place Illyrio lived in.

Then she saw the guards behind the gates.

There were two wearing plate armour in a Westerosi fashion with pikes held on either side of them. They stared as she approached, but neither moved, nor spoke, as she stepped towards the entrance.

“I’m… Is th-this Illyrio Mopatasi’s manse?” She queried first in Westerosi. When she got no answer, she tried again in Valyrian.

“Illyrio is not expecting any guest, today,” one of the guards replied. “Run back to your mother, girl. Your lip is bleeding, besides.”

_ You killed our mother! _ Viserys yelled in her head.

“Please,” she begged, close to tears. If this didn’t work, she had very few options left. 

_ That Lady never said we could stay. She merely wanted our mother’s crown… I don’t know where to go next. _

“I’m Daenerys Targaryen. He said he…” She paused to steady her breath. She sucked her lip in and tasted blood, trying to clean herself up. “He said he would take us in.”

“Targaryen,” one guard rolled the word over in his mouth. “Daenerys Targaryen… And Viserys?”

“Yes!” she nearly yelled. The relief from being recognized overcame her fear of Illyrio - momentarily, at least. 

“He’s been expecting you two,” the guard said. “Shall I escort you to him?”

Her heart began to race. It felt like she had sprouted wings and was about to lift off the ground. “Let me bring my brother!” she said turning on her heels to run back to him, before remembering her manners. She turned back towards them and amended her statement. “Thank you. Please wait for me. I’ll be right back,” and she fled back down the street.

It was only as she began to approach her brother again that her trepidation rushed back. The look in Viserys’ eye told her he did not like the fact that she came back so soon. He crossed his arms and began to scowl at her.

“Do you _ want _to be an orphan?” his lip twitched with his sneer.

“Illyrio,” she panted. She didn't bother to explain what happened in fear of testing his temper. “Illyrio Mopatis welcomes us.”

“Illyrio,” he repeated, lowering his head and casting shadows across his face. “He’s promised me many things, and has yet to deliver. Why is it that he fancies me, now?”

“I-” Illyrio’s words floated through her head.

_ I have friends in high places and treasures which only the Blood of the Dragon can make use of… _

“I don’t know,” she concluded.

Viserys scowled again, but at least mulled her words over. “Well, bring our things, I will go find out if he is a friend or a traitor like the rest of them.”

Viserys stormed off towards Illyrio’s manse with his belongings, while Dany was left to collect the rest. It was only two bags, but at eleven years old, she found the task strenuous in the best of times. She ended up dragging them down the lane, sweat beading on her forehead in the hot morning sun. By the time she made it to Viserys, he welcomed her with an impatient, tapping foot, and crossed arms.

“Took you long enough,” he remarked. The guards looked at each other before opening the gates to let them in. 

Viserys took his bag from her and stepped in off the street. He took a deep breath of the lush, welcoming gardens which sprawled out from the front of Illyrio’s grand estate. 

Pebble foot paths ran throughout rose bushes and tall hedges on either side of the entrance leading along the main thoroughfare. Great care was made to ensure everything was symmetrical: even the ponds on either side with old, thick willows sweeping over the surface seemed near replicas of each other. The symmetry was repeated within the manse itself: dramatically high columns seen from the outside, replicated themselves within, propping the ceiling many dozens of feet above their heads. Daenerys thought that only giants would find this place cozy, for she found it rather stark and intimidating. Most of the halls, she could see as she took in her surrounding of the manse, were open air and let a breeze in, gently setting the black curtains to sway. 

Echoes of footsteps could be heard from areas she couldn’t see. Whispers rushed in from distant places. 

It was too cold for a locale which was so hot. 

It wasn’t home.

“Viserys!” Illyrio greeted them, opening his arms as he entered the grand foyer. Three maids followed behind him in bold, but delicate, attire. One held a black, leather box with metal clasps in her arms. All seemed to have originated from Pentos. “And sweet Daenerys. You’ve arrived! I’m so honoured you’ve accepted my invitation! Though, I’m quite astonished at how soon you’ve come.” As he approached, he made a great deal about bowing before Viserys, his maids following suit.

“Yes, well,” Viserys stammered, a smile playing on his lips as he straightened his back. “The Moretti’s were hardly hospitable to us!”

“You must forgive their ignorance,” Illyrio said, straightening up with great difficulty from his bow. His smile faltered slightly as he looked over Dany, eyes pausing at her lip. He was quick to resume his gleefulness, however, and left Dany wondering if he had actually spotted Viserys’ mark. “The people around these parts hardly know how to treat a King, let alone the King of Westeros. It’s been generations since one has graced their presence.”

“Yes, well,” he began again, clearly not used to being treated so formally. “At least there is one person who knows how to serve me,” He paused for a moment to consider his words. “You do plan on serving me loyally, like you promised all those times past, correct?” 

“Of course, your Grace. Here, let me help you with those.” Illyrio beckoned his hand towards their bags and two maids went forward to retrieve them. Viserys didn’t disguise the fact that he liked to look upon them as they bent over and carried their things off. The maid with the box remained behind.

“All my staff are most accommodating to _ any _ services you require of them,” Illyrio insisted to Viserys. Dany had only a slight idea what he meant by that.

Viserys nodded his head in appreciation. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted.

“Of course,” Illyrio exclaimed, apparently overcome by a recollection. “What type of host would I be without a guest gift? That is often practiced in Westeros, is it not? To show my loyalty, and to show my devotion to your true, noble cause, I gift you something befitting of your royal status.” He bowed again, but this time, the maid behind him stepped forward. She knelt down, unlatched the hinges, opened the top and brought the box above her head, presenting it for Viserys.

His breath caught in his throat as he realized what lay in front. Dany peered from behind him, tilting her head to the left to see beyond his back.

A cream and gold egg lay within on red, satin sheets. Dany quietly gasped as the light trickling in from the outside danced upon the scales, making it appear translucent.

“This is indeed, a fitting gift,” Viserys concluded, his face having reverted back to neutral, revealing nothing. “You have my gratitude, Illyrio Mopatis.”

“Your Grace,” Illyrio smiled pleasantly. Dany thought she saw something wild in his eyes, though; carnivorous. The feeling she had from the other night began to creep upon her again as he spoke. “You honour me, but I am not done with my gifting. No. In fact, I plan to gift you not merely the egg here, but the dragon within. The people from the Free Cities to the Lords and Small Folk of Westeros will finally remember who their true King is.”

Daenerys, puzzled at his words, looked between him and Viserys for an answer. Dragons had not been hatched in over a hundred years.

Something had grown within Viserys though, Dany could see. His neutral, lordly expression was replaced by the same wild longing she saw in Illyrio’s eyes. He smiled. A joy which spread from his chest to the top of his temple enveloped him, and Daenerys heard his voice flash through her head as it had a thousand times. She had thought it sounded menacing before, but the irreverent thought nearly stilled her heart, now:_you don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all you beautiful people who keep reading, commenting, and kudos-ing my work! It really means a lot to me and keeps me going even when I'm having troubles trying to tie everything together or have writers block. The story almost has 400 kudos when I never even thought it would see 400 screens. I'm over the moon!
> 
> Also, a side note for future chapters: just thought I'd give you a heads up to look out for non-chronological story telling from here-out. It shouldn't be too unusually for book readers (or even show watchers). This chapter takes place AFTER the last chapter as I tried to make clear in the dialogue. This won't always be true, but I will do my best to make it clear where everyone "is" in the timeline
> 
> Next chapter will be Mern!


	17. Chapter 15: Mern

Mern would not call himself a devout man. He barely believed in things beyond the simple facts of life: the sun will most likely rise tomorrow morning, the fields need to be seeded in the spring for them to be harvested in the autumn, and a man can choose his own destiny, not lead one placed upon him by those long dead. It is the choices one makes in life which sealed their fate. But as he looked down the lane early one morning, as the dew from last night gently lifted from the touch of the sun, he knew the Gods were mocking his beliefs. 

It had been a year since Mern had seen the two wanderer’s faces: the knight with the head wound and the bastard boy from Winterfell. The knight looked much older. Lines creased his features where there were none before. The boy, meanwhile, looked half a ghost. Where once his inquisitive eyes gleamed and smiles were quick, they were replaced by a gaunt, hardness in his face. The boy’s hair was also much shorter and had taken on a white colour at the front. They were joined by two other men in old dented armour and garb in need of repairs. Their faces showed nothing of what they were thinking. 

Something terrible had happened, and Mern was not entirely sure he wanted to know or help with what they were bringing to him.

All four rode up to him, their pace seemed too slow to Mern. He wanted to know what it was they were here for. He had half a mind to run out to them, but thought better of it, using his time to tell his wife and child to stay in doors and up the stairs for the time being.

“I had wanted to stay away from you and this village, but we may have no other choice,” the knight called Brynden said. Mern creased his brow, not understanding.

“We need your help,” said Jon. “_ I _ need your help. You’re the only person for miles that I might be able to trust.”

“What’ll it be this time, then?” Mern said rather chipper. It was as if they had not brought a dark storm with them. “Do you want armour for yourself now, lad? Or perhaps for all your horses? I don’t know how much money I can spare for all that!”

“Are you sure we can trust this smallfolk?” One of the men he didn’t recognize asked. He spoke to Jon in a guarded manner.

Mern didn’t like to be brushed off, but knew how he appeared. He couldn’t fault this man if Jon and Brynden hadn’t given up his secret.

“Nothing wrong with honest work,” he replied with a nod towards the man. He gave Mern a hard look, dissatisfied with his response.

“It’s not the honesty of your work I’m worried for.” His words hung in the air, thick and caustic as smoke. Mern didn’t like what the man was implying, but could think of nothing to say in the face of a man who had instantly disliked him.

“We should speak in doors,” Brynden concluded. “Our voices might carry to the trees over there, and I don’t want us to be overheard.”

“I see no one,” Mern noted, scanning his eyes about the property.

“There are women gathering mushrooms in the woods and are making their way towards us. It’s best we move.”

Mern nodded his consent, his eyes never leaving Jon’s. He wanted to ask how Brynden knew this. He wanted to ask what this new, foolish man was doing here, and why Jon bothered to hang around him. His instinct told him to keep his mouth shut, however - as it usually did.

_ This is not the same boy who worked in the fields last year. What have they done to find themselves back on my doorstep? _

With this in mind, he kept quiet as he led their horses to his stalls and gathered them around his hearth, asking casually if anyone wanted a drink or something to eat, as a proper host would.

“Ale,” the man who had been quiet until now spoke, clearing his throat as if he was parched. 

Mern nodded and poured everyone a cup. If nothing else, it might lighten the mood. 

All being seated with a cup in their hands, or else in reach, Jon began with: “I’m so sorry.”

Brynden huffed. “You shouldn’t begin a discussion by admitting fault. You don’t even have anything to apologize for in the first place.”

Mern pursed his lips and scratched the stubble on his chin. “Why don’t you tell me why you think you should apologize,” Mern offered.

Jon took a deep breath and looked down at his hands which clasped a cup of ale tightly in his lap.

“We shouldn’t trust him, Jae,” the man who was suspicious of him urged, turning to Jon.

_ Jae? _

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Mern tried to say lightly, but his annoyance cut through his words. “I’m Mern, and you are?”

“I’ll tell you when I think it’s suitable,” the man said. He was not ten years older than Jon. It was only when he crossed his arms in annoyance that Mern truly discerned how young he was.

“We’ve discussed this,” Jon began, his tone turning sour. “We cannot run forever, and I cannot have you question every decision I make. I think this is the right thing to do.” 

Jon looked back to Mern, his eyes large and soft, reminding him of his age. 

“Well, my name’s Bernard,” the man who had just finished his ale said. He looked between the suspicious man, Jon, and Brynden, gathering that he might have spoken out of turn. “Well, it is,” he protested. 

The suspicious man shook his head at Bernard and a silence took foot in the room. Jon took one large swig from his cup before continuing.

“The egg hatched for me at Harrenhal.” 

His words danced through the room, as crisp and clear as ice.

“The… The egg?”

“The egg which heralds the rightful King,” the suspicious man said.

“I’ve heard the tales,” Mern snapped back. “If it has, then… Then you’re the King...” His mind found it difficult to connect the words he said with the reality before him. This boy, barely a man, was a king? No. There must be some mistake. Some lie.

There had been whispers in his village: there’s a Dragon King amongst the Riverlands, laying in wait to take up his mantle. It was supposed to be wild fantasies which smallfolk created to pass the time. Not two years ago he had heard whispers of giants and mammoths storming through the North: obvious hogwash. A year earlier he had heard the Baratheon King had died from gorging himself on pork. He knew better than to believe these tales. He thought Jon had as well, having grown up in a castle with some modicum of education. He didn’t think Jon would fall for such stories, or that Jon would pull himself into these lies.

_ The only other option would be that he is… Truly is a… _

Mern stopped himself before his thoughts trailed too far. Jon was the Bastard of Winterfell. Through his father he had blood of the Old Kings of the North. To hatch a dragon though, required the blood of dragons. 

“Where’s… Where’s the dragon?” He queried. He needed physical proof. A tangible, meaningful sight he could grasp - understand. Without a dragon, a King could not be present before him.

“She’s in the forest south of here. Hunting. I was reluctant to bring her so as to not bring any unwanted attention.”

Mern shook his head. “I need to see the dragon.”

“I-” Jon started, furrowing his brows. “I could bring her, but it would take a while. And I don’t know where I would hide her.”

“Those sound like excuses,” Mern nearly snarled. He didn’t know where this anger had come from. It spread from his chest and into his temple like a poison. He wanted to stop himself. Hold his tongue like he had done so many times before, but he continued. “You either have a dragon and you are the King and you have brought… a world of trouble onto my plate - affecting not just myself, but my family. Or, you are a charlatan and think me a fool to believe in fairytale nonsense to take even more from me.”

Jon looked down at the ground, unable to meet his glare. “I’m sorry,” he said before closing his eyes. His fingers twitched ever so slightly, as if he was instantly asleep and dreaming.

“What-” Mern began, but Jon had already awoken. 

“She’s coming.”

Mern merely stared at him, counting the breaths he took as the world around seemed to stand still. 

“We should be alright by the time she lands. The women have left.” Brynden turned to Mern. “We would appreciate it if we could use your stable or barn, for the time being, for her.” Brynden commented in a neutral tone. “It would certainly keep her more hidden than we’ve been able to do in the last couple of months.” Mern looked at him, still unbelieving, mouth slightly agape. He wanted to say something snide back. _ This was all a jest, right? _ There were tendrils of unbidden thoughts creeping up his spine, flowing into his mind. 

_ But what if this was true? _

“I don’t want to be a burden to you or your family. If you choose it, we will leave in the morning.”

“But,” the suspicious man spat. “It is your duty to serve your King as his subject.”

Mern looked between the men in his house: Jon, his eyes round and hopeful; the suspicious man with his arms crossed and lips frowning; Brynden, his fingers tapping the armrest of his chair and lips pursed, waiting; the other man, Bernard, who had downed his cup of ale and was working on the suspicious man’s. It was a scene like any other in an inn or ale house, but it was like nothing he had experienced before: the tension needed Valyrian steel to break it.

Mern sipped his ale willing it to calm his shaking hands, but alcohol was a poor medicine for such things.

Kings. 

Kings and Lords and Dragons. This is not what he had envisioned all those years ago when he had finally led his family to the North, looking for land to till - seed to plant. Someone had warned them of Jon: an ill-omen, if he wasn’t mistaken. But when he worked for months to help his family and the village last year, he seemed more of a boon, than a bane.

“She’s here,” Jon spoke, rising from his seat and walking through the door he came through. The suspicious man followed close behind, while Brynden and Bernard waited for him to exit first. 

Opening the door was like opening the gates to the afterlife. The sun, previously hidden, had burnt away the morning clouds and burst through onto the landscape, momentarily blinding him. He walked out into the yard looking down, blinking away the patches of light and dark in his vision. When he looked up, the sight before him drove him to his knees.

It brought him back twelve years before as his father lay dying in his sick bed, begging for him to hear his words. The hair on his head and face had greyed and was greasy and damp from sweat. His stare was fierce as ever - right up to the end. His vibrant greens eyes demanded Mern’s attention.

“When the Dragon wakes,” his father rasped. “The smallfolk will hearken to his cause, for he will be amongst them. He shall raise sword, thread, and hand, and Lords shall fall before him.”

“I’ve heard this before, and it’s all tales spun by old wives and young boys who want something sweeter for their lives.”

“No. No, it means us, Mern!” His father reached out his hand to clasp his son’s. It was cold and slick and repulsive. He was skin and bone having sloughed off weight faster than a river torrent in the spring. “The hand! The Greenhand! The Gardener! Us! We will rise high as Aryns, Mern! As high as when we were Lords of the Reach! When I am dead, you must pass along our legacy! Your name's sake!”

“You sure it didn’t mean ‘raze’?” He asked sardonically, taking his hand away. “That connection is as feeble as a babe’s first steps. Besides, the Targaryens are dead, or mostly dead. How can you put any faith in these words when you’ve seen them lose such power? There will be nothing to pass along.”

His father shook his head slowly, disappointed with him, as he always was. When he was younger, it would have meant a beating, but now - now that he was confined to a bed - his anger had pacified. Mern almost hated that more. All the fury his father had for him as a child, to grow up to be strong, take back what was theirs, was now held behind the eyes of this useless corps of a man. What had it meant for him to live this way? All this anger. All this longing. Everything was now out of his grasp. Mern couldn’t live that way. No amount of prophecy or desire could overcome the almost insurmountable barrier of becoming one of the nobility. 

“There will be a day when you must choose between your fatalisms and destiny. I can only hope you treat it better than you do your own father.” 

That was the last time he had spoken to him before he died.

The Dragon gracefully swept its wings out to lithely land upon the ground as Jon reached up to touch the green beast. It’s body was still smaller than a horse, but it’s wingspan made it seem larger than any creature he’d known.

“Her name’s Mundoros,” Jon called out to him, while petting its muzzle.

“It means Catastrophe’s Light,” Bernard announced with a grin from behind him. He walked up and clapped Mern on his shoulder. “I hadn’t ever heard of such a word until the last year. Ca-ta-stro-phe,” he enunciated. “The King knows some good words.”

How was everyone acting so plainly? How was it, that the scene unraveling before their eyes did not bring everyone else to the edge of their sanity?

_ A dragon. A real dragon. How was this possible? He’s just a boy. _

_ When the dragon wakes… _ his father’s voice floated through his head.

“Will you grant us safety,” Jon queried again, stepping away from the dragon and approaching Mern. The green beast folded its wings back and clawed its way forward behind Jon. “For at least tonight?”

His heart thundering in his ear, Mern bowed his head. He saw the future before him. His entire life which he had worked hard for was slowly crumbling. 

_ When the dragon wakes… _

He felt weight upon his shoulders, a weight he thought he had shrugged off after his father had died. It was the weight of his Household. The strife and anger and pain which plagued his ancestors wormed their way back into his mind. He found it momentarily hard to breathe.

_ What do I do? _

_ What do I do? _

_ What do I do? _

_ What do I do? _

_When the dragon wakes… _

His mouth was dry as he looked up again.

_ Is this what fate is? _

_ It tastes so bitter. _

“If I had a sword, I would lay it before you,” he declared, taking a knee. His voice was frail, but clear. He knew what he had to do, though he hated himself for it. “To you I pledge the faith of House Gardener. Our hearth and heart and harvest we swear to you, your grace. What little fight we can give, is for you to command. Grant mercy when we are weak, help when we are helpless, and justice for all, and we shall not fail you. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” A pit formed in his stomach as he spoke words he never thought he would say.

“Mern…” Jon said, wanting to question him.

“Gardener?” the suspicious man asked. 

It was night by the time the group had finished telling him and his family their tale. What had happened after he and Brynden had left their small village, Harrenhal, and everything after. It was all surreal. Assassins sent by the King… the _ other _ King. Riverland Lords who could only offer so much, others who betrayed their trust. These were events which would have happened over the course of one man’s lifetime, and this all occurred in the past year.

It was a miracle, they were still alive and unharmed. Or was it meant to be? Had the Gods been laughing at him this entire time? Had they smirked when he accepted to give the Lord he leased the land from what he’d sown? Did they titter as he helped Jon - no - Jaehaerys and his companion? Did they think it hilarious that a Gardener helped a Targaryen?

Had his father been right all along? Mern rubbed his eyes and his temple all that evening, trying to understand everything.

_ Who so hatches the egg of stone and anvil is King born and heir to Aegon the Conqueror. _

He was the King. He was a true _ dragon _ King. 

His daughter Flora listened quietly. Patiently. Absorbing every detail like a cotton cloth to water. His wife, Dyra, looked to him, trying to read his face.

She was a smart woman, despite her circumstances. The daughter of a Petty Lord whose grandfather was raised from knighthood to lordship, she knew the fragility of her family’s station. Her grandfather had built his first castle from wood, and had been mocked regularly for his inadequacies. He never learned to read, and relied heavily on others to navigate his new circumstances. Neighbours had burned down the wooden castle, and a stone one had been erected during Dyra’s childhood. It was small. There was space for only her family to eat and sleep. There were no outer walls to seclude themselves from the rest of the world, though. They lost their castle, a tower as Dyra describes it, to pillagers when she was fifteen. Mern had found her living in squalor with her mother, her father having gone to their leal Lord to beg for assistance to regain their home. He never returned.

Dyra knew him better than he knew himself sometimes. She would voice thoughts that were difficult for him to materialize. When she looked to Mern, he knew she was hoping he would find this reprehensible: a pathetic attempt to sway him to a futile cause. He was caught on their hook, though. She just couldn’t see it yet.

When it was time to retire, his wife and daughter escorted everyone to an acceptable place for the night. His wife gently closed their bedroom door behind her after she had seen Flora off to bed.

“You can’t mean,” she whispered harshly at him. “To keep them here, Mern. The King will be after us. The one with an army and the Seven Kingdoms behind him.”

He reached out to her as she approached him, pressing his lips against hers. She recoiled, taken aback from his sudden assault. 

“What,” she hissed, “do you think you’re doing?”

_ When the Dragon wakes, the smallfolk will hearken to his cause, for he will be amongst them. He shall raise sword, thread, and hand, and Lords shall fall before him. _

“We need a son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to everyone who comments and gives kudos! It never fails to make me smile when I see new notifications about someone giving feedback or liking my work!
> 
> So, I jumped forward in time a lot here and skipped over a year's worth of events for Jon and crew. Don't fear! I'll have a chapter which covers the most important points from Jon's point of view (or Jae). But this is what I meant from the point I mentioned last chapter: some chapters will be "ahead" of others. They will all be caught-up before the 'climax' of this arc, though.
> 
> In other news, life has taken a toll on my time within the last - what? - two and a half months of the year. I've gotten engaged and am planning a wedding, I'm searching for work, and student loans are due, so I haven't been able to write ahead as much as I would have liked. Also, Covid-19 is sending my country's economy into a potential recession, so that's not great for job prospects :D Just know that I do have an outline, but finding the creative energy to type it all out has been taxing, especially this past month.
> 
> I will try to keep to my schedule, but stress and anxiety do not make good companions when trying to write. I will post on twitter if I'm not happy with posting a chapter in two weeks.
> 
> Other than that, I hope everyone is, and stays, healthy! Physically and mentally! Wash your hands, try to stay home when you're sick, but most importantly be kind and caring to each other. There's so much out of our control now a days, but our actions are something we can take charge of. <3


	18. Chapter 16: Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Put another shrimp on the barbie!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: lite body horror. If you don't want to read that, skip the paragraph before the cut. The results from it last through the rest of the chapter, however.

_ Where had they found all these people? _ Daenerys thought as terror, horror, and revulsion spread through her entire being. 

They yelled and begged for their lives. They pleaded and sobbed as they cried for mercy. They beseeched the Magister to let them see their mothers or fathers, or sons or daughters. 

“Please! Please! Not like this!” One woman screamed. She struggled against the grasp of the goaler and he dragged her up to the wooden kindling and logs, shackling her like he did the others to the stake in the middle. “Please! I have a child! I would take it all back if I could! Please!”

“That one was a whore from a brothel the Usurper would visit frequently,” Viserys whispered into her ear. She could hear the smile he was wearing in his voice without ever looking at him. “I had Illyrio arrest her on some minor crime so I could send a message. It also doesn’t hurt to get rid of those who would sleep with the enemy.”

The woman began to cough as her throat became hoarse from her pleas, spitting out globs of saliva which mixed with her tears dribbling down her chin. Daenerys wanted to help her, but there was nothing she could do. There were guards everywhere, and even if she managed to make it to the woman, where would they go? She knew she would end up waking the Dragon - something she hadn’t done in a long while now. She hated herself for not wanting to do so any time soon.

_ Illyrio said he’d be gone in a few months time, a year at most. I must bite my tongue and act properly until then. _

Looking at the scene before her, she found it less and less likely that she would be able to.

The last person was tied onto the stake with the others, and the ceremony began.

A Red Priest walked forward, raising his hand for the audience before them to quiet. The screams from those chained to the stake remained, though. She could see even at a distance the uncertainty and fear on the faces of those watching. Illyrio had hosted a great party at his manse for the entire week leading up to this event. Each day had brought increasingly expensive delicacies to eat and spectacles to look at. The other night, a lion from distant lands was paraded through the courtyard and through the house, giving the ladies a good scare and the men something to laugh over. It all led to this. These people were mostly the wealthy of Pentos, and a few from other Free Cities. Any who Illyrio deemed fit to see the birth of a Dragon. 

The birth of a new King to fight for. 

Daenerys had been told that the Priest followed R'hllor, a Red, Fire God from the lands to the east. He had been too eager to enact Illyrio and Viserys’ plans. His God loved fire and sacrifice. The promise of Dragons and the spread of his religion in Westeros was what had tipped it over the edge.

He spoke in High Valyrian, telling the noble crowd of his God and his God’s will. R’hllor willed her brother, Viserys, to have this dragon born of fire and blood. He brought forth a cream egg from within his cloak and held it above his head for everyone to see. There were “ooh’s” and mutters from the crowd as the Priest gingerly brought it back down and held it out for Viserys.

Viserys gracefully marched over to the priest. Dany could see that he tried to compose his face to something close to poise, but his smirk from earlier showed through. He raised a dagger over his head, showing it off just as the egg had been, and brought it down on his palm, leaving a bright red streak in its wake. Daenerys could see the muscles twitch in his face as his smile died. He had yelled at the priest and Illyrio for telling him to bleed for them. They did their best to assure him that only a little blood was needed, and there would be barely any pain at all.

From what she saw, she knew he would be wroth.

He held back whatever was flying through his head, however, as he smeared his palm across the scales of the egg. When he brought it away, a gory, red hand-print was left behind, ruining the gleam of the scales.

The Priest lay the egg near the feet of those chosen to be sacrificed. It was too close though, and one man kicked it away in defiance.

Viserys screamed for their legs to be tether to the stake. There was a lot of movement and shuffling before the egg was replaced back to where it originally was.

Viserys was fuming by the time he got back to Daenerys.

“I want to hear them scream before they die!”

Daenerys looked down at her feet. The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity around Dany, the past days of festivities especially. So many people came and went from the mansion. Some she recognized, some she had never seen before. There were men of high fashion and men of lower esteem. Women accompanied them. Most were wives, but some clearly were not. Those women were brought for Viserys. He gladly welcomed them and all other gifts these men brought him.

Viserys laped it all up. It was all he ever wanted. What he deserved. The people of the Free Cities, knowing that he was soon to hatch a dragon, spoiled him in ways they never had before. Money was freely given and promises were asked  _ of  _ Viserys. Something her brother did not overlook.

“When I am seated on the throne and the usurper and his  _ dogs _ are burned and scattered to the wind, I shall reward my most loyal servants. Your past misdeeds: forgotten,” he would smile cruelly at them. Dany knew he would never forget. Never forgive.

His demands grew in size and scope, but they were all met by Illyrio, who seemed to have bottomless coffers. 

“All for the rightful King of Westeros,”

It made her nervous in a way she never felt before. It was very like the moments in their life when a Magister or otherwise wealthy benefactor would take them in, but never set a clear date when his generosity would expire. Only in this case, it was Viserys whom she was unsure of. 

Meanwhile, Daenerys was made to feel at ease by Illyrio’s maid servants. They dressed and combed her hair, and cleaned her skin with fine extracts and scented waters. She felt like a true Lady despite her young age.

“We will give you control of our fleet of ships, if you consent to the betrothal of my eldest son to your fine sister,” a salt merchant asked of Viserys. He had told tales of his own genius exploits of cutting out the “middleman” and building his own vessels to carry his cargo to Westeros and back. He had two dozen ships and crew enough to sail them if only he agreed to his terms.

“She is  _ my _ sister and will be  _ my _ wife when I take back my Throne,” he sneered at the man. Daenerys hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath the entire time. She sighed in relief. Viserys was someone she knew. And she had been told several times he would marry her.

That same evening Illyrio had told them that Viserys had been made a great offer of betrothal to Princess Arianne Martell. He must keep it secret though, so as not to alert any who might be spying for the Usurper and his dogs.

Viserys chewed his morsel of food for a long while, a distance gaze set upon his face. “I hear she’s a great beauty.”

Danys’ appetite evaporated.

The current scene before her hardly made things better. She closed her eyes and thought of nicer days when they lived at the house with the red door as the condemned screamed in agony before her. 

“It would be best if we hang them, first,” Illyrio had advised Viserys the day before. “It would lessen their suffering and create less of a…” he moved his hand through the air trying to find the right word, “spectacle.” They often spoke of future matters while they believed her to be consumed by her studies or otherwise occupied in a distant room. How could she be occupied with anything wholly, when her life had changed so drastically?

“Is that how the false dragon-lord did it?” he sneered, knowing the answer.

“Not from the reports I’ve heard, but surely the-”

“Everything must be exactly done, down to the minute detail.”

“But surely,” Illyrio continued. “Your true, noble blood will be enough.”

Viserys paused to consider his words, Dany could see him grind his teeth together in contemplation.

“You will do as I say,” Viserys concluded in a low monotone. 

Looking up now to Viserys, it was clear he had not looked away from the carnage before them. His eyes were hard; determined. She followed his sight, but wished she had not. 

It was quiet now. The last gasps were taken as the fire roared and overtook them. Dany could smell their flesh cooking, charring, as they roasted on their stakes. As she looked up she could see their faces through the flickering flames: skin peeling back, blood sizzling off of flesh, lips curling up to expose hellish grins in death. A man’s eyes burst from his sockets and liquid spattered across the ground, reaching the hem of her new silk dress. She could feel her head become light as the floor began to lose its stability - it was fluid and rolling like waves. She was falling upwards and downwards at the same time, and the sky was below and the earth, above. Dany never felt the impact when she finally landed on the ground.

***

When Daenerys awoke, she was quite alone in her assigned room. The walls and windows were high and neatly painted in yellow, red, and white floral patterns. A dark wooden desk, chair, bed, and armoire were all the room held within, but it had been more than enough for Dany. 

Daylight etched itself upon the floor through the curtains and was slowly trying to reach the walls on the opposite side. This told her that she must not have been away for long.

Panic began to seize her as she swung her feet to the ground.

_ I made a spectacle of myself. Viserys is not going to like that. _

She stared down at the floor, catching a glimpse of the splatter on her dress. It was enough to make her head spin.

_ I will not faint. Not again. I am blood of the dragon. _

As she reasoned with herself and calmed her nerves, Dany heard the faint whispers of cries and cheers on the wind. 

_ The egg. The dragon. _

She rushed to the door, opening it cautiously. She did not yet know if there were terms for her release.

Not finding any guards, nor any servant in the corridor, she rushed to the back of Illyrio’s property. Servants were flitting through the corridors closer to the back of the house, bringing food and cloth and papers back and forth. There had been a chaotic energy in the manse all week with several dozen family’s worth of servants running past each other like bees in a hive. Today though, there was fear in their eyes where only stress had been before.

“Has he done it?” one handmaiden whispered to another as they accompanied each other down the high, columned hall. Each carried a basket of linen to be washed. “Has it hatched yet?”

“I heard a Lady…” the other woman’s voice trailed off as they wandered away from Dany. 

What had she missed?

As she hurried towards the crowd and the noise, she could finally distinguish the calls. They were cheers of adoration. She  _ had  _ missed something.

The main event.

She slowed her paced down and came to a halt in the open air corridor. On the field ahead was the throng of spectators, jostling and swaying side to side to get a better view of the platform in the distance. Dany could see the tops of Viserys’ and the Red Priest’s head as the crowd moved towards them, parting only where the charred stakes in the ground were. 

“This…” someone hollered above the din, “... King!” There was a loud response to that from the on-lookers. Dany needed to see what was going on with her brother - what was going to happen in her future.

She ran towards the end of the corridor parallel to the crowd and made up the stairs. She halted at a window which was already occupied by some wealthy guests

“You!” an elderly man with a long grey beard gasped as she found a space to look out from. “You’re that girl who was dragged off the stage? Are you perhaps Dan-”

“Hush, Usidore, he hasn’t finished speaking!”

Dany could see Viserys take the stage barring a cream and gold dragon. It was clear he struggled to keep it still as it thrashed and wiggled in his grip. Its wing floundered as it tried to fly, but could do no more than make the process of being handled more difficult for its new master.

Viserys looked over joyed despite the ruckus of the dragon. He held it over his head for all the world to see, and his smile never slipped despite the thrashing tail in his face.

“His name!” he called out to the crowd, barely audible above the gasps and awws. “Shall be Darysion, for he is a Kingmaker!”*

The crowd exploded into applause and cheer. The sight nearly took the breath out of Dany. A dragon. A  _ real _ dragon was present before her. If the tales were true, this was the second of its kind to have been brought back from the dead. She forgot about the pyre, and the dead in front of her for a moment and revelled in what had taken place. 

But then a thought struck her: it was in the care of her brother.

The crowd followed her brother as he led them back into the manse holding his dragon high above his head. Dany let the crowds sweep past her as she stared timidly at the stakes, the corpses left behind. A mother, a son, a father, a daughter, all now dead for Viserys.

She continued to stare, willing to remember their faces in life as followers of the Red God cleaned the corpses up. One had crumbled to dust while others remained intact.

_ I am the blood of the dragon. I will watch and I will not cry. I will not faint. _

By the time they were done, the bell for dinner was wrung and her stomach growled at her to obey.

The evening festivities lasted into the early morning as guests were wont to part from the dragon and its lord - its king. Wine and liquor from all parts of the world freely flowed into glasses all night. Several parts of the house were quartered off so that music and dance, feasting, talk, and idle strolls could be had independent of each other. The wealthy elite of the Free Cities took reign of Illyrio’s home. Smiles graced every faced it seemed, as the momentous occasion was shared by all. 

The dragon, Darysion, was placed in a large bird cage and strung up from the ceiling for all to see in the room where people drank and chattered. They ogled at the dragon and wondered after it’s ferocity and guile. It puffed smoke and beads of flame in its attempt to get out. Dany didn’t stay around that room too long, she didn’t have the heart to listen to the dragon cry. 

Dany had kept to the side and hid from any direct view of her brother in case he was angry with what she had done. She was used to doing this, though. Tonight, she had stolen a few bites to eat and a few sweets dipped in honey and lounged outside in the warm summer air as the crowd slowly died away. She stared at the black-stained gravel, and the hellish grins came back to haunt her as the sun dipped below the horizon. She decided to taste her first glass of wine from an overworked servant. She knew men would drink heavily to make them forget things, so she gulped it down, regretting it sorely: it tasted awful. 

Feeling woozy, she was able to drift off to sleep on a settee in some part of the manse she had not had the luxury to see until that night. It was large and soft and had several plush pillows of goose feathers snuggle up against. Her thoughts slowly drifted into nothingness as she let sleep take her, thankful for the evening spent at her own disposal.

“...best to… , your Grace,” a familiar voice said somewhere near Dany.

She cracked one eye open to discover the sun warming the sky in orange and pink hues. Two men wandered the hall towards her: one small and thin, the other tall and fat. She did not consider the matter long before she knew who they could be.

“How am I to be a King if I do not have the Throne,” Viserys hissed. The closer they walked, the more Dany could distinguish their features, and see the deep purple marks under her brother’s eyes. He also wore white bandages around the hand he had cut earlier.

“You are a King no matter where you are or what you have!” Illyrio consolled. “But the one who stands to take the most away from you, is not the Baratheon man.”

As they approached, Dany quickly closed her eyes and feigned sleep. It might be better if they didn’t know she was listening.

“The Throne is the heart of the Seven Kingdoms. He has already taken that from me! If I do not have the Throne, how am I to take back the rest of the Kingdoms?”

“It is precisely because the Throne is at the heart, that you should not aim for it first. Weaken the limbs, throw doubt into the minds of Lords and the Smallfolk. Make them doubt the false Dragon-Lord and the Usurper. When you have killed the False Dragon, you will have shown the Seven Kingdoms who their true King is - no, who it has been all along.”

“I do not want my army to be weakened fighting some ill-begotten whore’s son in the Riverlands while the Usurper has time to rally an army together. Tell me, Illyrio, do you really wish to see me crowned? Or are you another false friend?” Halted in his tracks, and Dany could hear Illyrio’s pace falter as well a few steps after.

“I have always, and will remain, a dear friend and confidant of the Dragons.”

Daenerys could almost hear Viserys grind his teeth together at his words.

“Besides,” Illyrio continued, walking forward again. “I have friends in high places in Kings Landing, and I can assure you he will make matters easy for you to go after the false Dragon-Lord, your Grace.”

“If he is as subtle and effective as you make him to be, then can he not just kill the Usurper and crown me king?”

“Tutt,” Illyrio tsked. “It seems we have found your elusive sister. How soft and fair she looks while asleep. We mustn’t speak of such matters at the present, lest we wake her.”

Daenerys heard soft claps and rush of feet across the stone floor. 

“Take her back to her quarters, would you? See to it that she does not wake.”

With hardly a sound, she felt arms lift her off the settee and away from the far side of the manse. She squinted, looking through her eyelashes to see who had a hold of her. It was a large man she had never seen before, with a gangly boy with blue hair following closely behind. She quickly closed her eyes again and wished to all the Gods she knew the names of that they did not notice she was still awake.

The large man placed her down on her bed, and Dany had the odd thought that this might have been the second time, in however long it had been, that this had happened. She smiled at the thought and opened her eyes by a fraction to spy her steed one last time.

Instead, she was greeted by a pair of wide, dark eyes.

She gasped and sprang upright, no longer concerned with pretending to sleep.

“You’re awake,” the youth grinned. He would be quite handsome, Dany thought, if it was not for the blue hair. The accent was also familiar.  _ Westerosi _ ? she thought. Certainly not from around here. “I thought you might be awake.”

All thoughts of his handsomeness disappeared.

“Griff..” the older man warned, narrowing his eyes at the younger boy. He had found the door and was trying to leave, but stopped in his tracts as the blue haired boy spoke.

“I- What do you mean?”

“Nevermind,” the boy smiled again, this time in a low whisper. His brow was quite prominent and his nose, clean and sharp. He spoke through thin but pronounced lips. “His name’s Griff,” the boy with the blue hair said, confusing Dany. “I’m Griff, too. Young Griff, he calls me. And if there’s anything you need, just call for us and we’ll be happy to help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *King = darys; make = mazverdagon. There is no word(s) for "maker" or "creator", so I had to do my best combining the words we have. I also didn't want to have some long, unpronounceable name. So, I combined the root "Darys" with a conjoining "i" with the end of "mazverdagon for: "Darysion" (dah-ree-see-on). It is similar to Viserion, while also allowing for Viserys to think of names outside of ones after himself :) 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudosed over the last two weeks. I managed to pull through and put something together for today :) This isn't my favourite thing I've ever written, but I thinks it's better to just post it and move on, rather than stress and be finicky over this.
> 
> As a short update: on the downside, there aren't any new job posting for my field in the past week. On the upside, since I can't look for work but am quarantined, I certainly have more time to write :,D 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts on this chapter (or life in general) by leaving a comment or kudos. I love reading everything, and I always do my best to comment back :)


	19. Chapter 17: Jenny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ever wondered what would happen if Anne of Green Gables was in asoiaf? No? No one? Only me?

Jenny, normally, loved to talk.

She would chat with her neighbours while they passed by her garden on the way to the village, inquiring after their health, their animal’s health, or how their crops were doing. She would talk about the weather, and the new spice that she added to the last meal she cooked (it wasn’t too pleasant), or the news from Riverrun or Kings Landing or across the sea. She would remind her neighbours that she would love to help with any herb or remedy they need in the future, as her garden was always well stocked and primed.

“Aren’t you ever so glad that we live in a world where basil exists? I certainly am, for I use it most excessively in every meal!”

Her neighbours would smile, nod their head, and be on their way, glad of her vibrance and good nature (but also that she was not as chatty as when she was younger). 

Jenny had a grand imagination and many more words than the average child to express them with. When she was younger, she would often tell others all about her dreams and desires and wishes and tales she had come up with all on her own. Often, she would dream of these things as she combed her hair through in the evenings, working out the tangles and knots and oils which found their way onto her head. She imagined herself in a large castle with handmaidens on either side of her and that she had thick, romantic, black hair instead of her wiry, thin red hair. It was enough to make her sigh coming back to reality.

“I had a dream last night, where the sun was gone and only the fire from dragons lit the earth below! The world was black and green and red and terribly frightening. I woke right awake!”

“A blessing that was only a dream, then,” one of her neighbours had dismissed her. 

As she grew older, she learned to temper her bouts of fancy around others.

“If ever a prince would come my way, Merridyth, oh! I hope he would be sick as sin so that I would get him better and he would fall madly in love with me! He would want to marry me, even though he shouldn’t and we’d live in a castle by the seaside with seven little children to run after!”

Merridyth laughed, “But you would smell so much of sheep, I doubt he would want to stay around you.”

Jenny had pinched Merridyth fiercely for the insult, resulting in her being punished.

“But it’s not fair!” Jenny had protested.

“Life isn’t fair, sweetling,” her mother would retort before using the bundle of twigs on her.

As it happens, she discovered that her mother and father were not in fact her birth parents at all, but her aunt and uncle. 

Her real mother, her aunt’s sister, had died after giving birth to her - an only child. Jenny’s father had died shortly after from drink, her aunt and uncle suspected. They had found him dead at the table, flask in hand, with his baby in the crib crying for a meal. They had taken her in, deciding to raise her. Her aunt and uncle would tell her the truth when she was fifteen. They wanted to raise her like their own child, and finally be able to say they have a daughter of their own. 

This was quite distressing to Jenny nonetheless, and she kept to herself for a long while. Months would pass where she would barely acknowledge her neighbours passing by her garden in the sunny afternoons. Some, finding the lack of conversation on their daily travels rather glum, had tried to speak to Jenny, but found her waxing poetics instead.

“M-my life i-is a gr-graveyard of all that I once f-found true.”

“I understand you’re quite upset with me, Jenny, but you’re now upsetting our neighbours from what I’m hearing. You should stick to spinning, if you cannot control your self-pity.” her aunt, nee mother, had said.

Jenny was in the depths of despair. She wanted to lie out in the fields and let the open sky devour her thoughts and feelings. She wanted to sink into a pond and let the weight of water compound on her, crush her, embrace her, smother her.

_ I will never know my true parents! I will never know my poor, poor mother who only wanted to have a dear child of her own! I will never know my father, who surely died of a broken heart! I can’t even talk with my uncle, either! Everyone is dead...  _

_ It's all very romantic to read about sorrows and imagine yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you really come to have them. _

It was when she was spinning, in the grips of her grief, that a boy happened across her. 

“Are you…”

“Am I…?”

Jenny didn’t mean to sound so rude, but she was upset that her deliberations had been interrupted. 

He was persistent though, and managed to drag her away from her thoughts and work. That was the first day in a long time that she had smiled, feeling more like her old self.

“Thank you,” she told the mysterious boy. “Thank you for bringing me out!” giving him a peck on the cheek. 

She skipped home with her friends, waving them off as she rushed through up the pathway to her door, entering with a broad smile.

“I’m back!” she called, finding her aunt had been sitting, waiting for her, the entire evening.

“You left your chores unfinished,” she said, raising her eyebrow and lowering her chin.

“I… I’m sorry,” Jenny muttered, her joy dying swiftly.

“But,” her aunt sighed. “Seeing how you actually seem happy for once, I’ll let it be.”

Jenny let out air she didn’t know she had held, and her eyes brightened once again.

“This time,” her aunt cautioned, amending her statement. “Now go to bed.”

As Jenny was fleeing upstairs, wanting to do no more damage with her aunt, she called out to her one last time.

“Be sure to thank whoever dragged you out today, Jenny. They’re good people.”

Jenny thought about how best to thank Jon, learning that Barter was making him and the knight a blade and suit of armour. Discovering the blade was for Jon from the source, she set about making some art, for that was what ladies did. She imagined it being a small tapestry: it would show him holding his sword in action, perhaps swinging it to slay some beast.

But her dreams were too big, and she had to settle on sewing a simple sword onto cloth with her lack of talent.

“I told you to practice,” her mother complained as she undid stitches and reworked them. “But, no, you would rather be in the garden, or even spinning, rather than working with a needle.” She shook her head in disappointment, but was clearly trying to hide a smile.

Then, they left too soon.

She had to give Jon an unfinished needle work, and she was so disappointed in herself.

_ Oh, I shouldn’t have done such a thing! I’m such a fool. Gods, he’s probably going to laugh at it if he inspects it too closely. He’ll probably throw it out.... Think of me as that girl who couldn’t use a needle to save her life. _

The following year had been reasonably uneventful. He stuck with her house chores which she shared with her mother, nee aunt. 

In the morning, she would sweep the floors and tidy the house, then help her mother milk the rest of the half-dozen cows and pour the milk through cloth to clean it. Then she would help make breakfast and call her brothers in to eat.

The rest of the day’s chores were split between her and her mother. Some days she would bake the bread, some days she would tend the chickens and pigs. Some days she would make the butter and cheese and ale, though less so than her mother since Jenny was never particularly skilled at the craft. Her mother had apprenticed as a milkmaid under her neighbour as a young girl. While she was gifted at the craft, her mother had no such penchant to teach others, finding continual failure of their daily cheese and butter less agreeable than simply doing it herself to better effect. 

More often, Jenny would tend the garden and the sheep, growing remedies for her neighbours and spinning wool to sell in the village square. Those were the things she was knowledgeable of and skilled at. Any spare time was used to learn how to embroider and sew properly.

“I think you’ve grown, Jenny,” her mother complimented her one morning as Jenny lay breakfast out for her brothers, letting her mother rest her swollen feet. “I can’t recall the last time you huffed and puffed or breathed a word of dramatics about your life,” she noted.

“Oh, that Jenny’s still there, but I feel as though I’ve been pruned and weeded, so that other ideas can have their time in the sun. It  _ is _ much simpler to live quiet and dutifully, though I must admit it’s a great deal less interesting,” she sighed.

“I would have thought, with all the tales we hear of Harrenhal these days, I would be chasing you down all across the Seven Kingdoms!” her mother laughed as she rubbed her soles. “You would have escaped me, too, with these feet to run on.”

And then one morning, Jon and the knight came back.

Mern was the one who roused them, calling everyone to his farm. This was highly unusual. He was not one to keep to himself, yet it was still unusual for him to call a gathering, especially this early in the morning. As he was new to the village, he had swiftly taken over a role as a negotiator between farmers and artisans while the court was away. The last time Jenny had seen everyone gathered together by mern was when they paraded through town in a charivari. It was his wife Dyra though, who Jenny mostly saw in the afternoons walking to the village with her daughter, Flora.

Her mother and brothers didn’t know what to make of it, so they sent Jenny and Robert, her eldest brother, over to see what the fuss was about. The rest went back to bed - it was still black outside.

Jenny quickly threw her wool kirtle and surcoat over her head with her belt to cinch it in place, blindly pulling her hose up and tying her garter on. She ran outside to find her brother, but turned around, deciding she did need to wear a hood afterall. She was panting and sweating as she caught up to her brother. She didn’t have time to pin the cloth on her head in place so she held it down as she rushed down the lane

_ I must look a fool, if there was any light to see. _

“It takes you bloody well long enough to decide what to do, doesn’t it?”

Jenny merely apologized and worked on steadying her breath as they trudged towards Mern’s farm.

The roosters began to crow as the villagers filled onto Mern’s land. Each person, understandably, was both annoyed yet curious about what this was all for. They gathered between his home and his barn where the earth was a hard, compact dirt and cobble mixture. A wooden platform had been placed outside of the barn. It was not much higher than the one in the village square the visiting Septons or criers would use for their weekly prayer and news.

As the sun lit the sky in orange and pink, she could distinguish a small figure leaning against the barn door looking down. It looked to be Jon, but that couldn’t be right. He was much taller now, older looking too, with a patch of white hair atop his forehead. It was as if she were still dreaming and her imaginings conjured some similar, yet foreign, figure for him. Above him, she saw the dark outline of an owl, swivelling its head to survey the land.

She slowly walked towards him with a careful smile upon her lips. She wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted to say to him, but she was glad of his appearance.

Noticing someone was approaching, Jon looked up, his face blank. 

Jenny paused, feeling something was off.

She thought she might have seen him smile hesitantly, though it could have been a twitch of the lip. It was still difficult to see clearly through the shadows of morning.

Jon opened his mouth to say something, but his words were eclipsed by her brother.

“Jenny! Jenny! Where did you go? Do I have to herd you ‘round like a sheep? Jenny!”

“Here,” she called, turning away from Jon to seek her brother out.

She could spot his mass of brown hair sticking out of the crowd before he broke into the open. At a gangly six feet tall, he took much after his father. Jenny wondered how she could have ever thought she was his true sister with her much shorter stature and bright red hair.

To the left, she spotted Mern walking towards the crowd from his house, his wife and child nowhere to be seen. Following behind him was the knight which Jon squired for, and two other men with swords she didn’t recognize.

_ Are they to arrest someone? Is someone in trouble? Is Mern in trouble? Why did he call all of us out here? _

Thoughts raced through her head too fast for her to fully process. Now that the sky was lightening and her head was clearing from the usual morning fog, her heart began to race.

_ Why is it that we’re here? _

It was the same question on everyone else’s mind. She could see the miller and his son, the baker and his wife, the smith, the neighbouring ploughmen and their seasonal hirees, the potter and his sister. All were muttering amongst themselves, eyeing Mern and the new men who’s steel was shown openly.

Mern jumped up on the wooden platform, quickly catching the attention of the crowd. Voices were lowered and eyes cast nervous glances between Mern and his guests.

“What is it we’re here for, Mern?” the barkeep called out to him. There were noises of agreement.

Jenny heard footsteps come up behind her - hard leather on stone. There was a tap on her shoulder, causing her to spin in fright.

“Goodness!” She yelped, throwing her hand over her chest. Turning around she could finally see Jon up close.

He was handsome. Far more handsome than any man around this village she’d lived in all her life. His face was narrow with defined cheekbones and a sturdy brow to center his face. Before, he had seemed so young and wide-eyed. She had wondered if he was really as old as he claimed to be. Now, he seemed her equal in age.

_ Had it only been a year? My eyes must deceive me for such a change to have occurred. _

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he claimed calmly, reaching into his chest pocket to retrieve something. “Here,” he said, reaching out and handing Jenny something she had almost forgotten about. The small needle work she had crafted a year earlier was placed in her hands. It was fringed on the top in black where it had apparently been burnt, and was fraying on the ends elsewhere, but it nevertheless caused her chest to swell.

“I came back,” he smiled sadly, before inclining his head to depart. He walked over to Mern around the crowd, nodding his head in recognition to those who saw him.

As he moved away from her, she held the fabric tightly to her chest, heart fluttering.

“Who was that?” Robert asked, his eyebrow was raised with a hint of a smile on his lips.

“No one,” she said stubbornly, embarrassed that he had been watching the entire time.

“He’s someone, ain’t he? He helped with our sheep last year, isn’t that right?” He let his smile consume his face, and now had to hold back laughter as he watched her cheeks become increasingly red.

“Listen here!” Mern continued to yell, raising his hands above his head to command attention to him. Jenny looked back up at him. “I know you all have busy lives and need to get back to your work, but this is too important to remain unknown,” he called out, only lowering his hands when the sounds of the crowd died down.

“What  _ is _ known,” he yelled in a strong voice, “is the stories we tell each other while the sun sets. When we gather together over drinks or thread or fire and we lay unto each other whispers and secrets carried through the land. We know the stories our mothers and fathers told us, whose mothers and fathers told before them, and we know they will be the same tales we tell our own children: of castles and kings and dragons.”

A murmur rushed through the crowd.

“What does he think he’s talking about?” Robert asked incredulously in a low voice before Mern continued.

“Neighbours. Friends. My family and I have lived here for near four years and have come to know you all, some as close companions. In that time I hope that I have not struck you as anything but an honest, reasonable man - who knows east from west and summer from winter,” he smiled nervously. Jenny could see the tension in his jaw and brow. He strained to smile against it. 

“I’m here to tell you these are stories and tales of far distant lands and hopeless futures, are here before you!” he called, raising his arm to behold the men standing next to him, his hand shaking ever so slightly. “I’m sure you recognize the young man here, and are all grateful for the help he gave last year.”

“Get to it, Mern!” a man Jenny couldn’t see through the crowd, heckled. “Why is it we’re here?”

Mern’s forehead became slick and he wiped at his brow with his sleeve. He muttered something Jenny couldn't hear which seemed to make Jon rock back and forth on his feet. “Fine,” he called. “You all deserve a straight answer!” He turned to Jon and patted him on the shoulder, leaving him with wide eyes and a half opened mouth.

Jon shook his hands out and took a deep breath. “Just as you needed my assistance, I now need your help!” Jenny could hear his voice crack through his sentence, and she smiled despite the heavy situation. 

“These men and I have been running - hiding, for the past year. But I feel now that it is time to stand firm. In that year, I discovered under horrible…” he paused to breathe, looking down at his feet. In a lower voice, he continued, “I’ve discovered... that I am Jaehaerys Targaryen. It was I who hatched the dragon egg.”

There were frantic whispers amongst the crowd for half a heart beat before, he continued.

“This is her,” he announced, raising his hand in the direction of the barn.

The two men with swords had slunk behind Jenny and were opening the doors to the giant structure. As the door rattled across the ground, the owl took flight, hooting out in dismay or frustration.

From within the dimly lit barn, was a large creature, perhaps the size of a horse, who’s shape transformed into something larger, more frightening, as the entrance opened.

Jenny hadn’t realized she was backing away until she bumped into someone. Robert held her arms steady, but his eyes looked anything but that. His grip tightened as the creature within the darkness unfurled itself and walked into the emerging sunlight.

It was a dragon. A real dragon, with scales green as spring with bronze tipped wings and speckles throughout its body. It was beautiful, a thing of songs and dreams.

And then it opened its mouth to yawn, revealing rows of needle sharp teeth, black as pitch.

_ A green Dragon from a green Egg. The Egg which reveals the true King. _

Her embroidery escaped her grasp as her hands froze, drifting to the dirt. 

_ The tales from Harrenhal were true… _

_ And Jon’s a king. _

Air escaped Jenny’s lung and she felt she might never get it back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to comment and leave a kudos on this story! It really means so much to me to see how people are engaged with the story and it pushes me to want to continue to keep that energy up!
> 
> That being said, this chapter is about two weeks late and I know I shouldn't have to explain myself, but whatevs, here it is:
> 
> 1\. I wrote three different chapters with three different characterization and three different backstories of Jenny before deciding on this one. All were about 3000 words, so it took 3x the time to write.  
2\. It began to rain from our ceiling and we had to deal with that for a week while quarantining. So that was awesome :D
> 
> What I find funny is that I began to write this story last October in an airbnb while our place was being renovated for flooding. Then at the beginning of the year, we had people in again for water damage. And now this. 
> 
> We have somehow offended the water gods. If there is ever radio silence on this story, then the water gods have enacted their ultimate revenge against us.
> 
> Anyways, next chapter will let you see what Jon and the crew have been up to, and then we'll be able to get into the main arc of this part of the story. 
> 
> It's a lot of set up, and I hope to be able to pay it off by the end :)
> 
> Stay safe, everyone.


	20. Chapter 18: Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello Darkness, my old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caution - There are a few thoughts of suicide and (less graphic) depictions of deaths. If you are sensitive to that, please proceed with caution. It is interspersed with relevant information, so I unfortunately cannot tell you to just skip ahead to a certain point.

_ How am I alive? _

He could feel his clothes burn off and the fire lick at his skin. It was warm and gentle, like tender hands in an embrace.

Then he felt a pain rip through his back, sharp as steel, climbing towards his head. 

_ This is when I die. _

He made peace with death. He yearned for it. There was no rational reason why he would not die in this tower. He would join Lady Whent and her handmaiden. He would be at peace and forget what he had witnessed. He only hoped the Old Gods would be with him here in the south. 

But he did not cease to feel. He did not cease to hear and see and smell and taste the bitter bile from his stomach.

He had moved closer to the wall, facing it as he curled up and blocked out the unfurling funeral pyre in the tower. The pain continued to move across his body. It was as though pins and needles prodded into him. He finally unhinged his hands from around his legs. His hand swept through the warm, flickering flames and landed on a scaly mass.

Like the dragon egg.

He put his hand down and tried not to think too much as the night wore on and the screams outside died down. He tuned everything out, trying to make peace with the situation he was in, now.

_ Perhaps I’m already dead. _

This was clearly not the case as the sun rose the next day, and the tiny dragon began to pester him for attention. It nibbled at him as its claws drove into his skin.

He wanted it to go away. To be gone. He didn’t want to have to deal with this… irritation.

“Who am I?” Jon asked as Brynden approached him, his helmet casting a dark shadow, obscuring his face. 

He looked straight towards Brynden. He looked behind him to the two guards. He looked beside them to the right. Up. Down. He tried to look anywhere except to his left. He avoided it, but he dared not close his eyes. That was when he saw their faces. He could still feel their skin slip off their bones. See their tears evaporate off their cheeks. Hear their dying gasps for air as smoke and flame consumed them.

And then there was the horrible, sickening sound of silence.

“I’ll tell you once we’re away from here. We must make haste. The neighbouring Lords have sent men to investigate. They will be here soon,” Brynden said in a low, steady tone. He gently laid a cloak around Jon’s shoulders and asked one of Lady Whent’s guards to help him down the tower as the dragon hissed upon his head.

They had left quickly with their personal effects. Jon had barely questioned why there were two other men alongside Brynden and himself. Were they the two men with them the other day? He supposed it didn’t matter. Did anything matter? A dragon had hatched and Lady Whent was dead along with her handmaiden. 

There was something important she was telling him…

He couldn’t bear to think on it without reliving the flame and flesh and smoke.

“Focus on the task at hand,” Brynden said gravely. Jon’s horse had left the road without him noticing. He turned back and focused only on following Brynden as they marched forward.

It was not until they stopped for the night by the lake, that Jon recalled he had a dragon and two other men accompanying them.

He slowly chewed a few bites of food Bernard had made, as he gazed numbly into their campfire. He thought someone might have asked him a question, but couldn’t hear what they said. He remained silent, choosing to find the farthest edge away from everyone else to sleep that night. The dragon followed him, curling against his back. It was as he lay his head down that he noticed that his hair was gone. 

He didn’t sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes he would remember. He would try to think of something else - Winterfell and Robb and Arya, the dragon at his back, but nothing seemed to work. His thoughts kept leading back to the same place.

He wandered away from the camp that morning before anyone else awoke, walking towards the God’s Eye. The dragon followed him, trailing behind on the ground with an awkward gait before taking to the air. 

The shoreline opened up after trudging through dense bush and grasses. Jon took off his leather shoes and walked through the sand. Finding a large flat rock, he sat down on it and watched the horizon. The morning light illuminated the blue-green ripples of the lake as bugs swirled atop the water and fish bit and jumped for their breakfast. Just before the sun peeked over the tops of the trees behind Jon, he heard the eery, mournful wail of a loon echo across the water. Then there was silence as the bugs and fish returned to the darkness, and the sunlight began to warm his back.

As his eyes began to close and his mind drifted into nothingness, he heard rustling behind him.

“Thought I’d come looking for you,” Rolland said casually, “before you truly couldn’t find your way back.”

“You don’t need to come after me,” Jon said sullenly. “You don’t have to watch me anymore.”

“But I do,” he said, almost forcefully.

“Why?”

“Because you’re the king.”

The comment, delivered so dryly by Rolland, was the funniest thing Jon had ever heard. At first, he contained himself, reserving his outburst to a few chuckles. But the more his words played over in his head, the more farcical it seemed. He began to heartily laugh like he had when Robb and himself had played pranks on Winterfell’s inhabitants as children. He laughed like he had when Arya had put a mouse in Sansa’s wardrobe and heard her yelp in terror. He laughed like he hadn’t done in a long while.

“What’s so funny about that?” Rolland asked in a somber tone.

“Me, a king? The Bastard of Winterfell? It makes no sense. No. You should go back to your home and mother, she will be missing you. I am king of nothing.”

“Jon,” he said hesitantly, stepping towards him. “_You _hatched the Dragon from the egg. You _survived _ the fire, where… others did not. That marks you as the true king. My...” he paused, biting his lip. “My Lady perished, but she found the answer her House had been searching for.

“Well she didn’t get to savour it very long,” he shot back, immediately regretting his words.

Shaking his head, Jon amended “I’m sorry. That was poor of me.”

“Perhaps we should go back to camp,” Rolland said, changing the subject. Jon put his shoes back on. 

Rolland’s lips were pursed as Jon walked past him.

_ Perhaps he’s wondering why he’s here - why he bothered to come at all. Perhaps he’s realizing what a jest this is. _

Brynden and Bernard were eating when he came back. Jon was offered a meal but refused it. He wasn’t hungry.

They packed up and continued their journey, heading east towards Maidenpool. They slowed as they came across the Kingsroad, noticing riders from Harrenhal sailing past. Jon quickly looked to Rolland and Bernard, realizing they might be spotted having been guards there. Yet, they wore unremarkable armour without a sigil in sight, and so were the clothes he and Brynden wore. They looked to be wealthy smallfolk rather than… whatever they were.

Crossing the road while it was quiet, they continued east setting up camp as the sun began to set.

“You really should have learned a few things from your mother, before you left,” Bernard mocked Rolland as he struggled to make a broth. “I know I don’t know a lot, but I know it’s better to be able to keep yourself alive than be able to swing a sword good.”

“This is women's’ work,” Rolland muttered, snarling at the bubbling, hissing pot.

“You’re right,” Bernard remarked sarcastically. “We should wait around until a woman plops herself at our feet, begging to do our cooking. I know that’s probably _ all _ you’d want from her as well.”

Boiling water was flung into the air towards Bernard, who managed to fling himself away before it made contact.

“You witless joke of a man! I take my station seriously! I’ve seen worms with more vigour and bravery than you have!”

“Well I hope that’s not what you put in the soup,” Bernard grinned back at him.

“Stop!” Brynden yelled before Rolland could retort. “Stop fighting! We have more important things to dwell on. 

Rolland grunted his compliance while Bernard glowered.

“We have spent too long in silence and need to discuss our future plans. This includes you,” Brynden decreed and he cast a steely gaze at Jon, who was staring at the sleeping dragon. He watched the light from the fire sway on the green and bronze scales.

“Hmm?” Jon asked looking up.

“You need to be involved in this.”

“In what?”

“You are all,” Brynden scowled, “testing my patients. _You _are needed at this discussion about _your _future, _your grace_. Or have you forgotten?”

Jon shook his head. “You have things wrong. I’m not the king,” he muttered before drifting back to staring at the dragon.

“Your life is at stake, here. Does that matter to you?” Brynden charged.

Jon shrugged his shoulders.

“We must talk about what Lords will hold sympathy for our cause and which will not. We must think of a way to raise your dragon unbeknownst to most of the Seven Kingdoms. And we must speak of how you are to reclaim your crown.”

“You do it then, since you seem so eager for it!” Jon bit back.

“Fine!” Brynden puffed. “If you do not want to fight, then layout your neck and let me end it for you now,” he snarled, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

Bernard’s hand reached for his weapon while Rolland jumped to his feet, eyes wide in disbelief. “What in the Gods’ name are you-”

“Hold your tongue and let him decide for himself,” Brynden barked, eyes turning back to Jon, drilling into him.

“I… never wanted this,” he mumbled lamely.

“I know that. The Gods, Old and New, know that. Vermin crawling under the log over there know that! Babes at their mothers’ breasts in Meereen know that! What we _ need _ to know is what you will do.”

“Can I not just leave? Can I not just hide?” Jon protested. “No one knows who I am. I can just-”

“Run for the rest of your life? What happens when your dragon is too big to hide? What will you do then? If you are not hunted by Baratheon’s assassins, which I assure you he will send, then you will be hunted for that dragon of yours. Is that the life you want to live?” His eyes were searching for something within Jon, which he wasn’t entirely sure was there.

“I cannot imagine myself at war either!” he argued back, rising to his feet. “Who will back my claim? Who will fight for me? Die for me? I have no army, or money, or land! How am I to do as you want?” He wanted to scream at him, hit him with something. There was this ball of fury rising up in his chest which he wasn’t sure he'd be able to suppress.

“As _ I _ want?” Brynden shook his head. “ If you do not fight for your life, why should I? Your fate was sealed the moment your dragon hatched, _your grace_,” he said mockingly. “There is no turning back. _I _am telling you, there are two ways forward from here. One is to die. The other is to take back your birthright. Now, the question becomes, do you want to live?”

His words floated through his head, finding it difficult to land anywhere. 

_ Birthright_. 

_ Do you want to live? _

He shifted his gaze to his dragon he had yet to name. She rested on the ground peacefully, unperturbed by their conversation.

“We can plan in the meantime,” Brynden continued in a calmer tone, “how to find an army, money, and land. But you must choose to fight for it. I cannot do it for you, and neither can anyone else.”

Jon stood there a moment, Brynden’s words trailing through his mind like ants at a feast.

He swiftly turned away from the group, grabbing his sword on his march towards the deeper part of the woods.

He heard noises behind him as someone made to follow, but heard Brynden tell them to “let him be”, which he was glumly thankful for.

He walked a good distance, letting his rage flow out into his limbs as he cursed the world.

_ Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. All this time! _

_ How can I be a prince? A King! I’ve only ever been a… _

He struck at the closest tree, hearing a solid _thunk _as it bounced off the bark.

_ Damn it. Damn it. Damn it! _

He struck in unison with his thoughts. The tree became battered and chipped the more he swung.

_ Thwack! _

The last swipe reverberated through the steel and sent the sword tumbling out of his hand.

_ Damn it all! _ He let out a loud groan of frustration, kicking the dirt before collapsing down to the ground. He breathed hard as the anger which fueled him slowly dissipated. He was left with only grief for what his life had become.

_ Why me? Why must it be me? Why could it not have been some boy across the sea with white hair and violet eyes and at least _appear_ to be what he seems? _

He backed up to a tree trunk and leaned against it, staring at the destruction he’d caused. Wide gaps of bark had been picked off from his hacking. He hadn’t realised the extent of the damage until his anger subsided. 

He brought his knees up to his chin and sat silently as darkness encroached upon him. He knew as more time passed that he would lose his chance to find his sword as night fell, but couldn’t make himself move despite the call to action. Instead, he placed his hands on his scalp, feeling the coarse, dark hairs begin to sprout from his temple again. He had never been bald, so far as he could remember, and the odd sensation gave him something to think on instead of the present state of affairs.

As it became difficult to see the trees before him, he noticed a light in the distances and footsteps following, getting closer and closer. He wanted to tell Brynden to go away and leave him be, but couldn’t muster the words for it as he approached.

“I thought I’d find you when I could no longer hear your sword ring out through the woods,” he smiled, throwing the torch to the ground. “Less of a chance of finding myself acquainted with the sharp end,” he explained.

Jon huffed, not wanting to look at him.

“Come now. Are there not questions you want to ask? I have many answers to give.”

Finding Jon unresponsive, Brynden looked over at the beaten tree, considering it for a moment before finally sitting down at its base, opposite Jon.

“I can wait as long as you need.”

Jon wanted to remain silent, but the questions which had fueled him all his life were burning quickly within, destroying his composure in a matter of minutes.

“Why?” The word seeped out of him, heavy like summer rain. “Why am I… Why am I…” he trailed off not knowing exactly what he wanted to ask. He wanted to know everything, he wanted to know nothing. He wanted it all at the same time, and he wanted to run back to Winterfell and forget this ever happened.

“I will tell you of your parents and why you were born, _if -_,” he paused, gauging Jon’s reaction, “you are ready to hear it.”

Jon nodded his head.

“Not lightly do I say that I have played around with this story multiple times and have been able to… persuade people of certain actions before. However, I will tell you a mostly unaffected - unpersuaded, version of this tale, for I plan for it to be so this time.

“Your mother and father, as you may now know, are Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. They first met at Harrenhal under unusual circumstances. But the incident with the Knight of the Laughing Tree led to the ire of King Aerys. He had spies and whispers drifting into his ears at all times and soon found himself thinking that the mystery knight of Harrenhal was out to kill him. 

“Rhaegar caught wind of this. It was a matter of time before all those who were at Harrenhal were interrogated and the truth revealed. Knowing who the mystery knight was, he planned to keep Lyanna out of the reach of his father. Her capture would surely start a war with the North and possibly the Stormlands, as well. This, of course, inadvertently led to Robert’s Rebellion and your birth.”

“I don’t understand,” Jon said. “I thought she was kidnapped. Did he not kidnap her?”

Brynden cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. “The issue of kidnapping is rather muddled when the crown prince, or any royalty for that matter, is involved. Is it kidnapping when the heir apparent tells you to come with them if they want to live? If this were a regular man, then you might get a Lord involved and dispute the legality of the forcible seizure of a person, but, in effect, the crown _is _the law. If you want to know if Lyanna went willingly, well, she went as willingly as one could be after being told their life was in danger if they did _ not _ go with them. But there was no struggle, no blood being drawn, and no exchange of colourful language.”

“Then why were we told she was kidnapped?” Jon asked, but was already realizing the answer as he spoke.

“Is it better to tell a lie and keep peace, than it is to tell a truth and risk war?” Brynden asked.

Jon was not sure if he meant it to be rhetorical. The longer they sat in silence, the more he begrudgingly realized he’d need to answer.

“I… I suppose if you’re not the one to lose anything, then peace would be preferable.”

Brynden dipped his head. “And so it was, with Eddard Stark. 

“But we must not forget that Lyanna was betrothed to Robert Baratheon before her untimely demise. As someone who came to call Lyanna’s brother his flesh and blood, Robert came to idolize her and created his own image and grace to attribute to her without ever really knowing Lyanna, himself. It is difficult to discard these notions we have of others under the best of circumstances. But when you hear the crown prince has your betrothed with him, and that the King has killed Lord Stark and his heir, and is now calling for Eddard’s and his heads, how could one not let that anger for the crown be directed towards the prince and his actions as well? He claimed Rhaegar kidnapped and raped her because he could not think of it otherwise.

“Once Robert had been crowned, what use was there to question his tale? It only prolonged resentment and kept the Seven Kingdoms from uniting.”

“So, how am I-”

“Yes, yes, I’m getting to that. You sound like this is all about you,” Brynden mocked.

Jon didn’t find it very amusing and grumbled a bit to himself.

“Somewhere between the Riverlands and Dorne, Rhaegar and Lyanna… well… did what they did. They found in each other… comfort, I suppose, which they didn’t have elsewhere. And, knowing that her name would be besmirched and his own honour sullied, he married her in addition to his first wife Ellia.”

“But… Would the Faith allow that?”

“Some Septons would allow a great many things for their King and prince, others not so much. Rhaegar found one who looked favourably on the Targaryens and allowed for the long-outdated polygamous marriage which Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel infamously had.”

“So…” It was difficult for Jon to wrap his mind around all this new information. He tried to take himself out of the picture and just hear the story as it was. “What did Brandon and Rickard die for?”

“It was sabotage. The message relayed to Brandon was not the message which was intended for him to hear. Lyanna trusted the wrong the person, and the Seven Kingdoms fell into war.”

“Who was that?”

“One Peter Baelish - he learned a frightfully dangerous lesson from it.”

Jon thought the name sounded familiar, but couldn’t place who he was or where it had been that he heard it.

“Does anyone else know that? That this… Peter Baelish lied?”

“None but the man himself… And those fortunate enough to know past, present, and future,”

They sat there in silence for a time. Jon never once looked up to acknowledge Brynden was there. Brynden, meanwhile, strummed his fingers on the ground, tapped his foot, began to hum, then thought better of it, and finally sighed in frustration. He wanted Jon to respond. A response was something he could deal with. Nothing was, well, just nothing, and made for a poor companionship.

“Do you not want to know how Eddard found you? What your mother named you? Why you were raised as you were? What your mother and father were like?”

“No,” Jon said glumly.

“Why so?”

“I… don’t care. I don’t care to hear these answers anymore. I thought I would. It’s what I always wanted to know. But, what you’re telling me… is so much worse than anything I ever imagined it could have been.

“My father is not my father. One of my grandfathers killed my other grandfather. _ We’re, _ ” he stressed, pointing back and forth between himself and Brynden, “distantly related. And that doesn’t begin to get into the nonsense of what happened during Robert’s Rebellion. And now, not only am I _not _a bastard, I’m told I’m trueborn. I have a dragon in tow, which _coincidentally _is tied with some prophecy or other about rulership. Then you tell me I must fight or die, but not to worry, for you can tell me everything I want to know? Well I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about Rhaegar or Lyanna. I don’t care about why Ned Stark raised me as his bastard. I don’t care about prophecy or Kingship or ruling or making war. I just want… I just want…”

“Well?”

“To go home.”

Brynden nodded his head, sighing. “My statement remains the same. From the moment that dragon hatched for you, you would no longer be able to live like you once had. It’s a difficult truth, but you must accept it. Otherwise, it will be a slow march to a slow death.”

Jon closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tree. 

_ Do I even want to live? _

He recalled the inferno and the thoughts of finally succumbing to the flame to be rid of all the pain and suffering and utter horror he’d seen. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be still and silent and calm, forever?

He thought of little Arya and her mischievous grin whenever Jon caught her playing tricks on Sansa. He thought of Robb as they rode through the hills and pasture lands around Winterfell, and how they would laugh freely after jumping over streams and logs, each wider and larger than the last. He thought of his father… his uncle… and how he had lied...

There was a flicker of some sort in the furthest reaches of his mind. It was playful, yet cautious; curious, yet eager to be sheltered. And it was hungry.

Jon opened his eyes, realising these were not his thoughts. It was the dragon. Of course it was the dragon.

“What,” Jon said with a sigh, knowing he must ask this one question, “is the connection between Targaryens and their dragons?”

“That,” Brynden exhaled as he stood up from the ground, walking over to the torch. “Is something which I would like to know as well. I’ve often been at a distance from dragons and their riders, and before now, there had not been dragons in this lifetime.” He picked the torch up and began to walk back to camp. Turning, he called back to Jon. “Would you like to discover that together?”

Jon smirked and propped himself up to follow after Brynden.

“We can find your sword in the light of day.”

As soon as Jon’s head hit his cloak-pillow, he was sound asleep, dreaming of nothing.

***

As the sun began to rise the next morning, Jon, bleary-eyed, awoke to the sight of the dragon pouncing after a mouse. Its winged forelimbs made for an awkward stride as it struggled to find the balance between walking and flight. It breathed out a puff of smoke and sparks as the mouse darted off into the thick underbrush of the forest.

Jon began to grin as the dragon became visibly frustrated by its lost breakfast. It began to claw at the shrub, testing its new environment, before being pushed back by the reflexive flick of the branch. Snarling, it flew on top to see if it could find a way down to its meal, but the perch was precarious and the dragon found itself struggling in a tangle of sticks and leaves. It’s pitched, yet frail yelps told him it was in anguish. 

“Here,” Jon laughed, picking it up and placing it on the ground, facing it away from the bush. It turned back around and tried to ignite the trap it had caught itself in, but could do no more damage than rustle the leaves a bit.

“The day has just started, and yet you’re already so angry,” he told it, not knowing if it could understand him or not.

Rolland yawned out his g’morning and soon everyone else had awoken and broke their fast on bread and cured meat. As they began to saddle up, Bernard asked a seemingly benign question.

“You come up with a name for yer dragon yet, your grace?”

“You can just call me Jon, and… no. Not yet.”

“Well, Jon, you should name it something good. I was named after my no-good father and hated the look in my mother's eyes when she would say my name. I beg your pardon, but I suggest you don’t do something like that.”

“If you don’t mind my thoughts,” Rolland chimed in, “perhaps it should hold meaning for you, yet be powerful to others. Something like Balerion - ah! Although, of course, I am just a guard and don’t mean to impose -”

“It’s fine,” Jon sighed. “I don’t mind hearing your suggestions.”

“Names and titles are very important,” Brynden cautioned. “You should think on what your dragon means to you and how you want it to be remembered.”

Jon thought as they travelled further and further away from Harrenhal. The fertile farmlands ended as swathes of forested areas began, covering their heads from the blazing sun at the height of day. So consumed was Jon as he thought of a name, that he had not the presence of mind to ask where they were going.

_ It should be meaningful, I suppose. But what meaning is there from all this death and… catastrophe? _

As they trod through the trees, the dragon deftly chased after birds and squirrels, weaving through branches like an embroidery needle. 

_ Needle? _ He thought, tossing the name around in his head. _ Needle, come! Needle, fly! _

_ No. That’s not right. _

The dragon pounced on a bird, which looked bereft of life as it lay still under its claws. In its pleasure, the dragon flapped its wings, bounding up in the air. As soon as its grasp lost contact with the bird, it flew off, faster than Jon thought a bird could move. He felt a wave of frustration reverberate off the dragon, unable to distinguish if it was from his skinchanging, or something else.

He couldn’t help but laugh at its incompetence and wondered after its forebears. 

_ Could something so full life and error grow to be the same creature as Balerion the Black Dread? _

_ Can the two sides be reconciled? _

He spoke to Brynden about Valyrian terms and names. Jon decided he had something.

“Mundoros,” he announced. “Or Catastrophe’s Light. That’s what I’ll name her.”

“Her?” Bernard asked. “Beggin’ ya pardon, but… How do you know?”

“I just… She feels like a female… I don’t really know why.”

Bernard nodded in acceptance, but his brows were still knit together. “And what does… cat-ass-tro-fee mean?”

“A disaster.”

“Ah, huh,” Bernard considered, scratching his chin. “Mun-dor-os,” he rolled it over his tongue.

“Finally,” Brynden called, chiming in. “it took you long enough to find a name.”

***

Jon had awoken several times that night from nightmares. It was the same dream every time: Harrenhal. Lady Whent and Mary screamed as they died, and Jon watched as their fingers turned to ash in his hands. The flames would be blinding, and he would wake as the sounds of cracking stone and a screeching dragon, filled his ears. It left him tired and embarrassed when others would see him thrash awake.

“Perhaps it’s time to find a place to hide for the time being. We cannot simply wander aimlessly through these parts so close to Harrenhal,” Rolland insisted. “I’m sure there are many Houses throughout the Riverlands who would welcome and protect their true King.”

Jon tried not to frown at his words.

“I’m sure House Darry,” Brynden commented with a hint of a smile, “would welcome us most warmly.”

Their travels through the Riverlands went mostly unhindered, the presence of Mundoros escaping the notice of passersby. When she was not physically on Jon, he sent her to fly through the fields and forests they passed through. Her sense of self expanded and so did her knowledge of the world. Many things lived and made noises and scuttled about through the undergrowth which she loved to chase after. Jon had to be ever mindful of her actions however, as when she caught some poor beast in her grasp she had the bad habit of setting it on fire before trying to consume it. Bernard made an astute note that it might be better to not set a blazing trail of flames and death behind them wherever they went. So Jon was tasked with keeping his hands on her reins as tightly as possible.

It was not long before they were at the Ruby Ford and walking along its banks. A shiver ran down Jon’s spine as he thought about the implications of the river’s name. As the group paused by the water to collect themselves before entering Castle Darry, Jon spent his time looking at the river rocks. He tried to spy any glint or glisten in his peripherals, any red sparkle which might connect him with the history here, but was met with disappointment. Jon and Robb had spent time exploring the older parts of Winterfell when they were younger, uncovering old spearheads and rotting cloth and claiming it as some important piece of the Castle or House Stark’s history. Of course, looking back, those objects were most likely insignificant, meaningless, refuse. He didn’t know why he might think this time would be different.

“The Castle’s just around the bend there if I recall,” Rolland mentioned as he stretched his limbs out. “I remember travelling with… Well, she would visit Lord Raymun every few moons to discuss something or other. He made little effort to hide his banners when she visited. Not that she particularly cared for his allegiances, but I did overhear her comment to not let his bitterness lead to his death.”

“Today is not the day Lord Raymond dies,” Brynden said. “We should be cautious nonetheless. All this talk of Dragons and Kings and will lead to someone overhearing, who may have less than noble intentions for our wellbeing. Which brings me” he continued, eyeing Jon, “to what I’ve been meaning to talk with you about.”

Jon sighed. “What is it then?”

“Names and titles,” he said gravely, his lips forming into a thin line. “Before we enter, you must address yourself, and have others address you, how a King would. This is not the time,” he urged, cutting Jon off as he opened his mouth to protest, “to argue about what you want. Names and titles are important. It is the only thing separating Kings from Lords, and Lords from smallfolk.”

Jon bit back his instinct to dissent. “Then what would you have me called?”

“You were named Jaehaerys by your mother, and I suggest that is what you have others call you. Jaehaerys Targaryen III. You should be titled as ‘your grace’, despite your displeasure for it,” he cut Jon off again. Jon closed his mouth and began to pout. “It is through these formalities that you will be set apart from others, now. And it will be through your future actions which will set you apart from others in history.”

Jon huffed and angrily stuffed his gear back into his saddlebags. As he called Mundoros back to him to hide under his cloak, a part of what Brynden had said suddenly took root in his head.

“My mother named me… Jaehaerys?” he queried Brynden.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I wanted to, but I believe you said you “didn’t care” to learn about it.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, turning back to fiddle with something.

_ Jaehaerys. Jaehaerys Targaryen III. _

The name was surreal, as if he were playing games with Robb again.

_ Still, _ he thought, weighing this new information. _Of all the Targaryens to be named after, perhaps Jaehaerys is not so bad. _

A shiver coursed through his spine as he realized he let himself accept that he was a Targaryen.

_ I am not ready for this. I am not ready for any of this. _

Castle Darry was significantly less intimidating than Harrenhal. Its size was much more reasonable in comparison. Though smaller than Winterfell, it looked comfortable in Jon’s estimation. There was not likely to be abandoned and ruined sections and rooms in need of repair. This did mean, however, that it would be more difficult to defend from attacking armies.

Jon knew they wouldn’t be able to stay here.

As they approached the open gates, Brynden nodded to himself and mumbled something under his breath.

“What was that?” Bernard asked, smiling, hoping it was a joke.

“Just that this place is quite quaint when it’s not being ransacked and pillaged.”

“Ah,” Bernard replied, looking more confused than happy with the response.

There was a single guard at the entrance, leaning against the exterior wall and biting into an apple. He nodded at them as they drifted through the gates. Rolland huffed and shook his head, muttering about duties and ineptitude.

A finely dressed man stood in the front courtyard, making notes on a finely made leather book with a goose quill.

“And what,” the man said while his nose was still in his book, “can I do for you?” Upon closer inspection, Jon surmised he might have been a steward.

“Your Lord,” Brynden announced. “Is he about? We must needs speak with him.”

The steward peered up from his writings and looked the group over. “A wandering group of merchants? Hedge Knights? Has business with my Lord? Is it work you’re looking for?” 

“It is something else, I can assure you,” Rolland chimed in. “Your Lord, I believe, will be most interested in us.”

From beneath his cloak, Jon could feel Mundoros begin to stir, although it liked the darkness, it did not care for the cramped space, and began to struggle as she adjusted herself. 

The steward eyed him suspiciously. Jon’s heart began to race at the thought of being discovered, but the steward merely shook his head in annoyance, closing his books with a loud _ snap _. “It won’t be the first time a weasel finds its way out of a cloak in front of my Lord. Try to keep it to yourself, boy.” 

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but found himself lacking anything to say. He looked to his side and saw Rolland shaking his head, telling him not to question it.

“Yesser.” 

They were led to a robust hall where Lord Raymun was holding court. What looked to be his son sat at his side. The Lord was slumped in his seat, holding his head up with his right hand as a man complained to him about the decline of his crops. Jon could hear him say something about his neighbour and consorting with devils. Four guards stood at the front with them, Darry’s sigil emblazoned on their breastplate. On the walls were more heralds of House Darry: a black ploughman on a brown field. It was clear the cloth sigils covered a different banner, as black fabric could be seen peeking out behind it. The hall was otherwise modest. Benches lined the walls and young and elderly people sat upon them as smallfolk begged for their Lord’s time and attention to their woes. There were about thirty who filled the space, their voices echoing off the stone walls making it seem as though a dozen more people stood before him. Jon frowned as he looked at the sight. They needed a private meeting with Lord Darry, and this was not the ideal circumstance. Perhaps they should come back at a later hour.

He looked to Brynden to tell him his thoughts, but he had already marched ahead, passing others who had been waiting for a long while.

“My Lord!” he called, bowing his head as he cut the last person off. “I have urgent business with you.”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Raymun dismissed him. He was an average looking man apart from his beard and head hair being trimmed so neatly together, it was difficult to distinguish where one ended and the other began. Frizzled, grey hairs spurt forth from the top of his head, twisting and curling where the light brown hairs stayed straight. “Everyone does. And everyone must wait their turn.” 

Raymun’s son narrowed his eyes. He looked much like his father with a small upturned nose and thin lips, except he was clean-shaven and kept his hair short.

“Ah, but you see, it is naught to do with idle matters. I have business to do with the Fiery House that is clearly so dear to your heart!”

Something akin to fear passed through Raymun’s eyes. “You dare?” he whispered, lips tight. “Are you sent from the Throne? Are you meant to harass me until the end of my days? I’ve done my duty. I’ve sworn my oaths. What more could the Baratheons want?”

“You should remember,” the son said, his eyes darkening, “where you stand.” The soldiers beside him took a step forward and turned slightly to the side, showing his steel.

“He makes it hard to forget,” Bernard commented under his breath, causing Jon to have a short snort of laughter.

No one at the head of the room heard this, however, as Brynden continued. “I am not here to harass or beleaguer you with who you’ve sworn to and what oaths you’ve made. I’m here to talk to you about Harrenhal, as I think you might find it of interest.”

This caught Raymun’s attention. He sat up in his chair and cocked his head, eyes widening in surprise.

“How would you…” he trailed off. “Everyone but him, _leave _,” he ordered. His voice, previously soft and uncaring, now filled the entire hall. Jon could feel the command in his bones, and wanted to follow them himself, before realizing that would defeat the entire reason they came. “We will start again tomorrow.”

“I will need my companions if we are to come to an agreement,” Brynden stated.

Nodding his head, Raymun waved for his guards to lead his smallfolk outside. There was great dissatisfaction as they left the hall, grumbling about having come from distant parts of Darry land, only for this to happen.

Jon cast his eyes down as they passed by.

When the last person had filed out, Jon, Rolland, and Bernard walked up to the front where Brynden stood. Jon’s heart began to race. He could feel Mundoros getting agitated, and she shuffled onto his shoulder, still hidden within his cloak. Only Raymun’s son took notice.

“What do you know of Harrenhal?” Raymun burst forth. His lips were a thin, angry line, yet his eyes were wide, eager.

“We were there,” Brynden acknowledged. “And we know who hatched the dragon - who the true King is. _ Your _ King.”

Raymun stilled. It seemed his breathing even stopped.

“Who’s to say you tell the truth?” the son asked. “Who’s to say this is not some ploy?”

“Because it was me,” Jon announced, slowly unlatching Mundoros from his shoulder. 

She flapped her wings, trying to keep balance in his grasp. 

Brynden had told him earlier that they should make their point as quickly as possible and not lead them for too long. Raymun was desperate for a return to Targaryen rule anyway, and they did not need to test the waters too gently.

There was a sharp gasp. Jon didn’t see who it was as he focused on settling his dragon.

He placed her on the ground to let her decide where she wanted to go. She immediately crawled back up, trying to get back on Jon’s shoulder.

He tried to stand tall, to be a commanding presence, but it was quite difficult when there was a dragon on his leg.

“The rumours were true.”

Jon looked up, surprised to hear the news had travelled so fast.

_ I suppose it had been about six days… _

Raymun got up from his seat and took an unsteady step towards them. “In all my years…” he began, “I never would have thought… But who are you?”

“Jo-” he began, but remembered the talk he had earlier. “Jaehaerys Targaryen is what my mother called me.” The words felt strange and disturbing in his mouth, like eating rotten food. It was wrong. A lie.

Mundoros squawked and a puff of smoke came out before she settled on his shoulder.

“How?”

“Eddard Stark secreted him as his bastard for nearly 14 years, but he is the true-born child of Lyanna and Rhaegar.”

Raymun’s chest puffed out as he took a deep breath. “I knew those tales were false. I knew what Robert said was a lie. He only wanted the throne for himself, the treasonous bastard!

“All these years,” Raymun announced, walking up to Jon whilst eyeing his dragon. “I have been loyal to the Targaryens. There has never been another, I swear!” Raymun fell to one knee, causing Jon to step back. “Let us serve you, let us prove our worth. Lyman,” he called to his son. “Show them! Show them who our allegiance is to.”

Lyman nodded his head and walked over to his House’s banner on the wall and pulled it off, revealing the blood-red of the three-headed dragon.

“Eat our bread and we will swear fealty to you and serve you to the best of our abilities. We are not the great House we once were, but we will host you here for as long as you want. We will fight for you. Die for you.”

_ Is this what I want? _

_ I don’t even know this person, this Jaehaerys Targaryen, and I’m supposed to be him. _

_ But I’m just Jon. _

_ Just Jon Snow. _

He could hear Brynden’s voice ask him that dreadful question: _ do you want to live? _

It seemed to him that in order for Jaehaerys to live, Jon had to die.

***

Jon took to training with the Darry guardsmen in the morning and continued his education in the afternoons. He was still young, and Brynden thought it best for him to learn as much as he could, while he still could. The Darry library was not extensive, but it still could serve its purpose. The Riverlands had seen many wars and more battles, and Jon was tasked to understand each side’s strengths and weaknesses.

“If you’re going to mope,” Brynden told him. “You might as well have a book in hand while you do it.”

As the weeks passed by, the Darrys’ initial enthusiasm waned as it was clear Jon did not have plans to take the Throne. Raymun was eager to give names of Lords he knew would support him. He would tell him, over wine or ale, how the dragon could be used once she was big enough to take back Kings Landing. He was ever graceful and diligent about addressing Jon as ‘your grace’ and ‘Jaehaerys’. Raymun even doubled his commitments after receiving a letter from the Crown about renewing oaths and reporting any suspicious incidents. But after a few months of no progress, nor indication that Jon wanted anything more than to remain in place, his efforts to plot and scheme dried up.

Jon was relieved. Although things were not normal, he felt he could find some peace here. The nightmares had begun to subside as he lost himself in routine. He could swing his sword in the morning, read in the afternoon, and bring Mundoros out at night to fly and hunt and watch her grow. She would stay hidden in a shaft below the castle walls. It had been dug a century ago to undermine the integrity of the castle, but the miners had been caught before they could lay waste to it. The intervening years had caused the shaft to broaden whilst flora crept over the opening, disguising the entrance.

It was half a year after they had found a place with the Darrys’ that Jon was nearly killed.

He had taken Mundoros out to fly in the trees this night. Their path was lit only by the light of the moon. Rolland followed behind, ever watchful of Jon. He had taken his job as a guard very seriously these past few months, watching as Jon became ever more complacent with his life. Although he had never voiced his concern, Jon could see the disapproval in his eye whenever Jon dismissed himself as King. Just because he hatched a dragon, did not mean he had to go to war, he convinced himself. He could instead live this life - a half-life between Jon and Jaehaerys.

As he and Rolland had let Mundoros fly beyond them. She was allowed to hunt within a small, overgrown pasture which had been abandoned a few generations before as the previous Darry Lords expanded their hunting land. They had pushed the smallfolk out of the area and let the trees grow in. This small parcel of land was all that was left of the previous ploughman's plight.

They had a few yards to go when an arrow whistled past Jon’s ear. It clanked off Rolland’s plate armour and fell to the ground. 

He felt the air leave his lungs, and a cold sweat crept upon him.

“Arm yourself!” Rolland called as he pulled his sword out, steel glinting in the moonlight. Jon had only his dirk, while Rolland had brought his full attire. 

Jon scrambled to find the weapon on his belt, fingers clamming up, as the second arrow grazed his left shoulder. He hissed in pain as Rolland pushed him behind his back, sword forward.

“Cowards!” Rolland taunted. “Come out and fight!”

The third arrow made a dent in his breastplate, causing him to stagger back a foot.

“Get your blade out now!” Rolland hissed at Jon. “We could already be surrounded!”

Sure enough, five men approached them, stepping out from behind the trees. Their faces were indistinguishable from the cloth and shadow in the darkness. They had arrows notched and ready to loose, while Jon had only just made the effort to bear his weapon.

“Lower your blades,” one man growled. He was behind Jon, addressing Rolland. “We’ve watched you for several nights now. We only need the boy and dragon dead. No one else.”

“Then it appears we have a problem,” Rolland spoke.

“You don’t need to-” the man began again, but Rolland had already leapt forward and swung his sword up, knocking the bow and arrow upwards, before bringing his blade down again, cutting a deep wound in the man’s chest. The man staggered back, gasping.

Jon hunched down, ready for an arrow to fly at him. He flipped the dirk down as he ran towards another man. He would incapacitate him. Cut his hand and tendon. Do the same to the next man.

A sharp pain in his back brought him to a screeching halt. It knocked the wind out of him, sending him to the ground. The assassin in front of him still held his arrow, but released his grasp, sending it flying towards Jon as he fell to the earth. It cut across his scalp. Jon could barely feel it through the pain already coursing through his body. 

He lost his blade as he fell and he scrambled to try to find it.

It was difficult to breathe.

He took short gasps for air as he pawed across the dirt.

There was a clash of steel and a scream of anguish behind him. 

His fingers touched something sharp. He found the hilt and picked it up.

A heavy weight upon his back shoved him down. Any air he had found escaped as his chest struck the ground. He grunted and struggled to stand.

It was difficult to breathe.

Jon looked up and found a man stood atop him, one foot holding him down while a blade closed in on his neck.

He snapped his eyes closed before the impact could happen.

Instead, the man called out.

“Put your blade down, or I kill the boy here and now!” he called to Rolland. “No one else has to die! Only this boy and his beast!”

“I can’t allow that to happen,” Rolland said calmly, keeping his blade up.

“The King,” the man reasoned. “The _real _ King on the Iron Throne will pay his weight in gold to whoever kills him and his dragon. Having seen the man himself, I can tell you it’s more than enough to split handsomely between the two of us. Put down your blade and we can discuss it.”

“I told you, I can’t-”

Jon heaved in pain as the cold steel bit his neck. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

“Let’s talk about this!” Rolland urged.

“What’s there to talk about? You want to fight the rest of your life? That’s what you’ll be doing if you let him live.”

The world was spinning. He couldn’t keep track of what was being said. 

Everything hurt. 

He couldn’t breathe.

_ I don’t want to die. _

The world around him was crisp and cool as he looked down upon the treetops. Their foliage rustled and weaved back and forth with the wind, reminding her of water. 

There were enemies below, and she was angry, yet it wasn’t her anger. 

She could see their heat, smell the stink of their flesh. It made her salivate.

She was hungry.

Heat well-up within her chest.

She dove down, breaking through the canopy to reveal the clash between men. She caught sight of the man on top of her master, who was with her.

She breathed out and flames tinged with green were released upon the man’s head before he could turn around. He screamed in agony, dropping his shining claw to pat the fire out.

She dropped next to her master and stood over him protectively, baring her teeth and vocalizing her disdain of the man currently flailing around on fire.

The other man who followed her master swung his shining claw, cutting through most of the flailing man’s neck. The flailing man stopped flailing and died upon hitting the ground. The flames continued to consume him.

She began to salivate again. 

The scent of cooked meat consumed her. She crawled over to the body and breathed flame onto it, cooking more flesh. 

Her stomach growled. She bent her head to eat...

“Jaehaerys!” Rolland called. “Jae, are you alright?”

“Mrmmph,” Jon weazed. “Hungry,” he complained, before realizing it was not him who was hungry.

The pain in his back flared to life, causing him to gasp again.

“My back,” he breathed.

“You were shot in the back. Any lower and it might have got your kidney, then you’d be in trouble.”

Jon could hear tearing and squelching behind him as Mundoros consumed her meal. Jon shivered at the thought of what she was doing, but made no move to stop her. 

“We need to hurry to get back. We don’t know if anyone else knows about us, or how many more men are in their group.

“Here,” he added gently, helping Jon get to his feet. “I can help you get back.”

As they staggered towards the castle, Mundoros flying above, Jon couldn’t help but ask a question which had been swirling through his head.

“Why did you save my life?” he mumbled.

“That’s a stupid question, begging your pardon,” Rolland snorted, facing forwards. “You’re the King.”

“But, I’m just some boy y-you never really knew b-before Harrenhal,” he gasped.

“It doesn’t matter whether I know you or not,” he explained. “For me, serving my King is my duty as a knight and guard. Would you not say that is honourable?”

_ Honour_, Jon snorted. _Was I not wanting to be honourable not so long ago? _

“You think it’s funny?”

“I - ugh,” he choked. “I think a lot of th-things are funny. But not that.”

When they arrived at the castle, a maester was called for. Jon was brought to his room and given milk of the poppy to dull the pain as they pulled the arrowhead out.

Red flashed before his eyes. Someone was screaming. He saw the world outside the castle briefly.

“It’s alright.” Who was saying that? “Drink this. It’ll be alright.”

He gagged as liquid spilled down his throat.

His senses began to numb, and darkness closed in… 

He could see Lady Whent and Mary in the distance as flames rose up around their feet. Mary brought her hands up to her swollen belly protectively. He wanted to see their faces, but they were blank, erased. He tried to tell them he was sorry, he didn’t mean for them to die, but the flames were too thick. They crumbled before his eyes like every other nightmare.

Only this time, he couldn’t wake up.

He crawled towards them on all four legs, smelling their charred remains. The aroma of their flesh kept him mesmerized. He opened his mouth to eat…

He was a hawk, screeching, swooping down on a rabbit desperately trying to flee from him. His claws latched on, gripping through flesh and bone, crushing its rib cage, breaking its neck.

_ To eat is to live. _

He was falling. He flapped his wings to stop his descent, but nothing happened. His wings had turned to useless human hands and he barreled towards the earth. The ground came up to him, teeth glistening on the edges of the horizon, as it swallowed him whole…

He was a mountain lion, defending himself from his larger neighbour. He scratched and clawed and bit and tore at the large male. But for every mark he left, the larger male left double. He could feel the blood seep from his wounds, sapping his strength.

_ To live is to conquer, or be conquered. _

“_Why must you keep him here? _ ” a woman’s voice wailed in the darkness. “_Why must I suffer him? _”

He walked through the dimly lit crypts underneath Winterfell. He could hear Lord and Lady Stark and Robb and Arya and Sansa and baby Bran laughing and being merry above, while he was stuck below.

The statues of the Kings of Winter turned to face him, creaking in their stone form. When they opened their mouths, croaks and groans of agony poured forth.

“_You are no Stark.” _

_ “ _Please,” he begged, as the candles slowly went out. “I have to keep going.” There was a force drawing him down deeper into the crypts. He knew where it led to. He knew he had to go see.

“_You don’t belong, here. _”

The darkness closed in, and he was tumbling head over foot, through a void. He didn’t know up from down. Left from right...

He floated down a gentle stream, the water softly pushing him towards the mouth of the ocean. His head bumped into rocks, halting his progress.

He gently sat up, his lower body still submerged beneath the surface of the water. Before him, were two men in combat with each other. One held a hammer, the other, a sword. The hammer swung up, knocking the other off his footing. 

And then it came down. 

A splatter of red burst forth, filling the river in ruby droplets. Jon felt around the bottom of the river for one, bringing up a tear-shaped jewel. The man died with a woman’s name on his lips.

He was swiftly dragged down below the surface by watery hands... 

Everything was red. 

He couldn’t breathe.

A red assassin held a red sword to his throat and spoke red words.

“_Do you want to live? _”

“Yes,” he mouthed, barely a whisper escaping.

“_You must speak louder_,” the red assassin said, digging his sword into his throat. “ _ Do you want to live? _”

“Yes,” he called, his lungs finally filling with air.

“_Then fight for it_,” he snarled, swinging his sword clean across his neck, severing his head from his torso…

He awoke panting for air, slick with sweat. He brought his hand up to his neck, to ensure it was still intact. His head still swam, trying to piece together the nightmare he had awoken from.

Light streamed through the stained glass window in his room.

“You’re finally awake,” Brynden commented from the corner of the room. He wore plain, brown clothes with his cap on as usual. His hand held a book, which he swiftly set to the side of him.

“How long…” 

“It’s about mid-day now, so a while.”

He sighed in relief. 

“This recent attack, however,” Brynden continued, his voice lowering in tone, “does give us something we need to discuss. Something I believe you’ve been putting off for a while.” His eyes cast a steady gaze on him. Judging him.

He looked away.

“I’ll do it,” he mumbled, looking at the window. It depicted oats and barley blowing in the wind. “I didn’t know, for a time, if I truly did want to. Because it meant having to accept... but I think...” he paused to take a breath. He could only manage shallow gasps as the bandages wrapped around his body constricted his chest. “I want to live, even if it means fighting for it.”

Brynden nodded, his face unreadable. 

“I… I’ve never wanted anything for myself before, I swear. I never wanted Winterfell. I never wanted to take anything away from Robb or Arya or Sansa or Bran… I just…”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. I know better than most how you have felt all your life.”

“I don’t know if a bastard can be a king.”

“Then kill the bastard, and let the King be born.”

Brynden bowed his head and left the room without saying anything more.

***

The rest of the day was spent planning on where to go next. They could not stay with House Darry any longer, and Rolland admitted he was surprised they had gone undetected for this long already. 

Raymun gave them a list of Houses he believed would welcome them with open arms and sealed lips. He was hesitant to list Lords whose households included maester or septons heralding from certain families loyal to the Baratheons, but included them nonetheless with caution, in case they were in dire need of a roof and food. The condition for this list, of course, was to burn it immediately after they had memorized it.

“I cannot tell you how it grieves me to cast you out. I remember fondly reading letters from my uncle and his trials while taking care of what we supposed were the last Targaryens. When his letters ceased, I knew the worst had happened and feared what might now become of the children - cast out into wild, barbaric lands with those cruel people. It seems the same is happening here, and I can do little to stop it.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jae said. “It’s clear we have overstayed our welcome. We should have left sooner to avoid bringing suspicion to your House.”

“If only we had the strength of the Tullys or Freys.” Raymun had spat bitterly.

They fled the castle that night, making their way north. They crossed between the Riverlands and the Vale for a time, before returning south. They made sure to only camp in heavily forested areas, or else sparsely populated regions, to avoid unwanted eyes on Mundoros.

Over the next few moons, Rolland, Brynden, and sometimes Bernard, would hold court with some of the Lords on Raymun’s list, including House Moonton and Goodbrook and the lesser Lords. The one House in the Riverlands they were unsure of was House Lychester. They had fought on both sides during the Rebellion, Lord Lyman having also lost all of his sons for either side. When Rolland began speaking hypotheticals, it was clear Lord Lychester was in no hurry to aid another King. They had swiftly left Lychester lands.

“Should we begin to go south? Would it be a good use of our time to involve the Reach?” Jae wondered out loud, open for any to answer.

“It certainly is,” Brynden commented, “but to get the entirety of the region to fall in line, we would need the support of the Tyrells. And the Tyrells will not aid us unless they can see a crown within their reach.”

“So, they would want to… marry into it?”

“Yes. In fact, I’m certain if you knock on their front door, and offer to marry Margery then and there, you would have yourself thousands of men ready to fight for you.”

“I… I’m not sure I want to do that.”

“Well prepare yourself. If you are to be King, there will be many Lords throwing their daughters at you. You must determine what marriages will be most beneficial and which will be… detrimental to your cause. You did not grow up with marriage in mind, but it is something you must think on carefully, now. Especially considering who your parents are.”

Jae remained silent, continuing to contemplate Bryden’s words as he tried to sleep that night.

It was nearly a year after the Great Fire of Harrenhal, as it was now called, that the group decided they needed a more permanent, and reclusive place to reside. Mundoros was such a size that it was becoming difficult to disguise her as they traversed. More than once was she sighted by other travellers, hunters, or smallfolk, whose wide eyes told of tales they would tell until their dying breath. They had to travel through the night when this happened, the last assassination attempt ever-present in their minds.

It was only after Brynden revealed something rather nauseating, that a formal scheme came together.

“Oh!” Brynden had burst out loud, halting him in his tracks. “Oh. Oh! Oh dear!” His eyes sought Jaehearys.

“What?” Jae queried, worried at Brynden’s sudden anxiety. 

“Viserys. Have I told you yet of Viserys?”

“What?” Jae said shaking his head. “No.”

“He will be coming to Westeros in a year's time. With a dragon.” 

“What?” Jae yelled in disbelief. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Well,” he responded, seemingly at a loss for words. “I suppose I forgot.”*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This is both in reference to D&D commentary and the plot point in the original Once and Future King where Merlin "forgets" to tell Arthur to NOT bone that lady over there since she's his half-sister and the child they'd produced would be bring about the end of Camelot...Ooops. At least Brynden eventually remembered :D 
> 
> Again, thanks for all the Kudos and Comments and Subscriptions to this work in progress! It's almost at 500 kudos and 20000 hits and seeing the feedback has really been great all through the past couple months. You guys have been awesome!
> 
> I unfortunately also have to say that I can't commit to having the next chapter out in two weeks (surprising no one), since I feel a little burned out after these last three weeks. I have had part-time work editing MRPs for others, and between writing three chapters worth of material and that... I need a couple days to recharge. So while I'm not saying there won't be a new chapter in two weeks, I'm ALSO not saying there will be... Any questions? 
> 
> Anyways, stay healthy and safe!


	21. Chapter 19: Mern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in which lots of people talk and plans spring up faster than my dog when there's a treat.

The last six days had yielded more enthusiasm for this desperate cause than he ever imagined was possible. It had helped that word had spread throughout the Riverlands in the past year of what had happened, but the eagerness which greeted him when he approached young men and women in the fields, in their homes, was nothing less than miraculous. Perhaps the Gods had taken mercy on him. 

No, he knew better than most why these people were so eager to help: they could see and touch nobility - a dragon. When was the last time that had happened? When was the last time their liege Lord had personally come to oversee their lands, let alone a King had come to visit? A King, a Targaryen King who had hatched the last egg in all of Westeros had personally come to ask for their help. It was terrifying to stare into the eyes of the dragon. It was intoxicating to be in the presence of something from tales. 

“There's a King,” he had overheard a man say, “that's one of us, for he's among us.”

The King in question had grown up in a castle with the education and knowledge of nobility, but it was not worth undermining the cause.

Mern had been informing Jaehaerys about the local lay of the land. Green Market, as it was called by traders and artisans, lay on House Charlton territory. They were in turn sworn to House Frey. Mistletoe on a gold field with a green border were their arms.

This morning, Mern and Jae, as he insisted on being called when not in the presence of others, meandered down the side of a canal, currently under construction. A trench, the height of an adult and the breadth of two wagons, had been dug where a large muddy road had been. Wooden beams and siding held the walls up until stone could be found to line the sides. Homes and shop fronts faced the walkway they were on. There was just enough space on either side for two horses to pass each other without shoving anyone off into the ditch below. Mern had brought Jae along to illustrate what his plans had been for the village. He and Brynden had been rather interested in architects since they had come to his home, and he thought a tour of some work might do well while their interests last.

“Now, you know I’ve travelled a fair bit across the Seven Kingdoms and seen what there is to see. It seemed to me that the places with the most wealth had better access to their markets than the ones out of the way of traders. You see them there,” Mern pointed out to Jae, directing his gaze to the shanty boats drifting down the Green Fork in the distance, presumably from the Twins. “And I thought, why wouldn’t they stop here? It’s because it’s too much work to lug all their goods across the land. So, I asked for hands to help dig a trench, and they came. The surrounding farmers and artisans helped pitch in funds for the labour.”

“And these men are still here?”

“Yes. Men and women. There were a few farmers’ widows who were looking for extra income. They didn’t have sons, so I let them do the lighter work.”

There had been much to consider over the past seven days as they settled in. Time was running short, though. The longer they took to decide their next move, the more time word of their whereabouts could reach those who meant them harm.

“Would you like me to bring them to you?” Mern asked. “Or perhaps just bring the architect in charge, I don’t believe an entire room of workers would be productive.”

“Please,” Jae nodded eagerly. “I need to know sooner rather than later what our options are.”

“Where should I direct him?” Mern asked.

“To your home. Brynden or I should be there.”

Mern tipped his head, suppressing a frown, and turned about to look for the man in question. He paused and turned back. “Before I forget, two of our neighbours will be coming this evening to provide you with meat for the next couple days.” 

Jae nodded, casting his gaze towards the grooves and chiseled stone in the trench.

“I’ll be seeing you shortly,” Mern said, bowing slightly. They were careful to not be overly zealous in their manners while in public. Travellers from unknown places still wandered through the village. It would be unfortunate if they returned to their homes with fantastical tales.

On his way back, he crossed paths with Rolland, the ever watchful guard tailing Jae. Rolland narrowed his eyes as he walked past. Mern didn’t like the man, but could not doubt his loyalty or skill. He could, however, dislike him for his cold personality. 

Rolland quickly turned to follow after his King while Mern continued walking outside the row of buildings. Tents were set up outside the village for the convenience of the workers. He asked the first few people he came past where he could find the lead, and they directed him towards the outskirts of the tent town. 

A man in his mid-forties was seated outside a yellowing tent, larger than the others by a fair measure. The man was hunched over, drawing in the margins of sheets of paper already filled with words and images. A pot hung from a wood spit over a fire, and a woman in drab clothing stirred the concoction inside, her back to Mern. It smelled of roasted beef and vegetables.

“Kirth?” Mern called out, interrupting the relative quiet of the camp. “Are you available to talk?”

The man looked up. He had deep lines creasing his face and dark moles spotted all over his skin. It was difficult to tear his eyes away from a large one with obvious hair sprouting from it on his cheek. Black ink covered his fingertips while dirt found residence beneath his nails. He placed his quill down and scratched at his chin, leaving a black mark.

“Available? Are we not talking now?”

Mern shook his head. “I need you to come with me. There are people who want to meet you.”

He finished writing on the paper before sighing in agreement to follow.

“Don’t be too long,” the woman cautioned. “The carrots may fall apart.”

They made their way along the future canal. The canal ended and then the houses gave way to fields lined with trees. Grasses swayed in the cool breeze of the morning while the packed, dirt path gave off heat, warming Mern’s feet through his soles. The two men made small talk to pass the time. Kirth spoke about the good weather they’d been having while Mern spoke about his family. He and his wife were praying every night to the Mother for a son. In truth, it was only he who prayed. Dyra had not been on good terms after he’d accepted Jaehearys and Brynden back into his home.

Kirth was quick to follow behind Mern as they entered his home. It was dark and cool in the main room. The shutters had been closed and a few candles and rushlights had been lit. It was clear that Jae and Brynden had been in the middle of discussing something, as both fell silent as the two men entered.

“Hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” _ into my own home, _he thought ruefully. “I brought the man you asked for. This is Kirth, he leads the build for the canal and has previous experience in the mines of the Westerlands.”

Brynden and Jaehearys were seated around the table in the middle of the room. Candles and papers full of thoughts, plans, and actions were scattered across it. Rolland stood near the back door, while Bernard was seated in the far corner mostly concealed in shadow.

Jae nodded his head, rising up from his seat to greet him. “Thank you for coming. We will need your expertise.”

Kirth bowed his head in return. “And who exactly am I speaking to?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve heard the whispers. Are you the one the rumours are about?”

“Depends on what the rumours are,” Brynden replied, crossing his arms.

“Please take a seat,” Jae said, skipping ahead. “Know we don’t mean for you to be involved in our affairs. But in doing so, we must keep things vague.” 

Kirth took the seat offered to him, opposite of Jaehaerys. He began to tap his fingers on the table impatiently. Mern, meanwhile, decided to lean against the wall by the front door, eager to open it again to see the sun.

“Seems to me the moment I step through that door, I was involved.”

Jae gave a weak, apologetic smile. “Then we shall not keep you here for long.”

“Yes, I’ll cut right to it,” Brynden said, leaning forward on the table towards Kirth. “How much experience have you had with mining?”

“I worked in gold mines for most of my life,” Kirth sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Was able to work my way up by cosying up to the right people.”

“So, you’ve directed mining sites before?” Jae confirmed.

“Yes.” 

“How many precautions should we need to know about, if we were to, say... mine next to a river?” Brynden asked flippantly, as if they did not rehearse their questions.

Kirth cleared his throat. “I would suggest _ not _ mining next to a river. It would require too much labour to ensure the walls don’t collapse from the constant pressure from the water. Especially if you don’t have much experience. If you get flooding, then you need to invest in waterwheels and other nonsense. It was a nightmare to ensure the dike didn’t burst while we dug a trench out here, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near a tunnel while it was being carved so close to water.”

“Hypothetically, how far away should we be to safely tunnel then?” Jae asked.

“It depends on the earth. Is it silty? Is it mostly rock? Is it a combination? I couldn’t tell you unless I could see and feel it, myself.”

Jaehearys looked over to Brynden. In a lower voice, he asked if they had rough information or measurements for the “area”. Brynden replied in hushed tones, mumbling answers towards his ear while pointing at drawings and numbers on papers.

Mern kept his lips sealed. He had not been included in the planning for… whatever this was. They couldn’t possibly mean to mine anything of value along the Green Fork, could they? It had to be something else. This secrecy was supposed to be beneficial. They had said they’d reveal what the plan was once things fell in place. But keeping him in the dark only made Mern want to reach out for the light ever more pressingly. Why couldn’t he be trusted? He put his house and family’s lives at risk to help them. What has he received in turn? 

_ Whispers _.

“Packed dirt and mudstone mostly,” Jae confirmed.

“Well, it’s better than sand, but not as good as an ore vein in solid rock. I still wouldn’t want to give and numbers though, in case I’m wrong and you come for my head.”

Jaehaerys nodded his head, keeping his eyes on the papers. Something caught his attention, and his finger flew out to tap the numbers on the page.

“Kirth,” Jae addressed him, turning back in his direction. “We have about a dozen persons who have worked in mines before. How long would you say it would take to dig a half-mile long trench through rock and dirt with those men?”

Kirth’s lips formed one long line across his face and his eyebrows raised up halfway across his forehead. “Assuming no sleep? Perhaps a month if you don’t want anyone to die in the process. But why dirt? Are you not trying to get at some ore deposit?”

“Yes, yes, but it will take a half-mile to get there,” Brynden dismissed.

“Could we double the labour and cut the time in half?” Jae suggested.

“Perhaps,” Kirth pondered, more curious about what the operation was than the question itself. “Children are best usually. They learn quickly and can get into the small spaces to widen them for the adults to extract the gold,” he said, fingers sliding over his chin. “Or what have you.”

“And if, say,” Brynden continued, resting both his hands on the table, as if in anticipation for the answer. “We strengthened the mine shaft with stone and mortar, would anything short of fire be able to bring it down?”

Kirth leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the table as if to pray. “It would be a foolish waste of money and resources to do so. You’re better off using lumber. But if you did, the fire would need to be hot enough to dry and crack the mortar. You’d have to purposefully make this fire, control the airflow and everything, to get it to burn that hot. It’d be something a blacksmith would know more about. But, again, I’d seriously consider _ not _ using this for a shaft’s integrity. I’ve only ever needed to use a few stumps of wood to keep the hanging wall well above the foot wall. Of course, this is down in the heart of the earth.”

“Right,” Jae acknowledged, his eyes flicking over the papers before returning to their guest. “I think that’s all we need from you at the moment. Thank you for your time, Kirth. You’ve been a great help to our… endeavours.” He walked to the side of the table to shake his hand before he ushered him out of the house. Kirth asked if they didn’t want to know about ventilation, but was ensured they had everything they needed to know.

When Jae closed the door, the house went dark and still. Brynden sighed, shuffling some of the papers around on the desk before looking back up at Jaehaerys. It was as if all their troubles had filled the room: the secrets, constantly watching their back, the smothering hand of time.

There was a ruffle of feathers and a soft hooing from atop the shelving near Bernard. It was a bird of nondescript colouring. The shadows in the high corners of his homemade everything look shades of black.

“There’s… There’s an owl in my house?” Mern said, doubting his own words. “How did it get in?”

“He’s well behaved. Besides, he needs to hear this,” Brynden waved his concern away.

“Wha- Who?” He began.

“What do you think?” Brynden asked Jae, clearly not interested in explaining anything to Mern.

Jae sighed, walking back to the chair and slouching down in it. “I don’t exactly know what else we can do.”

“Would you enlighten me on the topic?” Mern asked, trying to keep any hint of a whine out of his voice.

Brynden pursed his lips. “I don’t know that we should.”

“It’s not even a complete plan yet, Mern,” Jae offered.

“All the more reason to tell. I can offer some insight or suggestions to help you.” He kept a steady eye on the owl as he spoke, unnerved by the group's complacency with it.

Mern heard Rolland suck in air between his teeth.

Mern groaned, exasperated. “I have not given you my home and loyalty to lead you astray. If I do not have anything to offer, I will keep silent.”

“You’re right,” Jae said. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, but we have to keep this, above all else, a secret. The Throne may hear of where I have been, but it would mean disaster if they knew where I mean to go. What we are thinking of doing is…”

“Madness?” Bernard offered.

“Aye. I’m afraid we’ve been rather disrespectful of you and your generosity. I’m sorry for it,” Jae said, casting his eyes down before looking at Brynden. “I think it would be alright if we informed him on the matter.”

Brynden snorted, slapping the papers down on the table. “You’re the King.”

Grimacing, he addressed Mern. “We mean to sap the Twins.”

Mern intended to say a guttural “uh-huh”, but ended up irritating his throat, causing him to cough. He brought a hand to his chest to control himself.

“What?” he wheezed.

“I know it sounds… outlandish, but there’s precedent for it,” Jae said, his eyes growing big. “I think it can work if given the right people and enough time, but it’s the aftermath which we’re still having trouble with.”

“How are you going to take a castle without an army?” Mern asked, voicing the obvious predicament out loud.

“Precisely. And we haven’t got much time for it before we must move from here, either.”

Mern continued to shake his head in disbelief. “You can’t just throw the smallfolk at trained troops within the walls. Even if you bring a segment down that castle would still be defendable from within. I remember reading from… well, it doesn’t matter… but the attacking army made gaping holes in the walls and still couldn’t take the castle for another fortnight.” He had so many questions flitting through his head like a swarm of bees. One rushed to the surface. “Why the Twins, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It had to be a castle with a defendable border. Like the sea or a river or… or the North,” Jae paused his eyes flicking down. “We can’t have taken the castle only for it to be overwhelmed on all sides days after. The Twins makes this issue easier, as we could have one castle still stand intact while the other be tactfully disadvantaged.”

“There are Houses north of the Green Fork, sworn to House Frey. And you could be overwhelmed from the south in a matter of weeks.” Mern countered, shaking his head.

“I've considered that,” Jon said thoughtfully. “We chose the Freys as they are not well liked in the Riverlands, and the counter-attack by their bannermen _ shouldn’t _be as swift or impactful as the Freys would hope. In any case, the time it takes Southern Lords to march around the Green Fork to the North will give us time to repair and reorganize, amongst other things. And if they come at us from the south wall, it will still be intact. We can even flood the moat if need be.”

“But what if the North…” Mern began, but then bit his tongue. From the look on Jaehaerys’ face, he had already gone down that painful path of thought. Then the fact that they still wanted to try meant that the chance would be slim, would it not? Or were they this desperate? 

“I’ll admit, there is a lot of weight counting on others to act as we hope they should,” Brynden sighed. “But I have a great deal of knowledge about how certain people should and will act. Besides, they are going to be preoccupied by something else entirely by the time we even attempt to take the Twins.”

Mern wanted to ask what he meant by that, but was silenced when Brynden raised his finger.

“I believe we have another guest present,” Brynden announced in a low voice. He nodded his head towards the front door.

Mern knit his brows together, but crossed the room to the door, opening it quickly to unhinge whoever was there.

Jenny took a step back with a gasp. She wore a dirty white apron upon her yellow kirtle, and her hair had been braided and tucked under a blue kerchief around her head. A pocket and knife hung from her belt, dangling back and forth with her movement.

“I’m terribly sorry!” she managed to say. “It’s just, I saw that other man leave and thought it would be alright to have a visit. His Grace said it would be fine. I… I have something for him. I never meant to seem ill-intentioned! I thought I would listen for a pause to make my entrance, but… well… I seem to have made a fool of myself.”

Jenny looked down, heartbroken. From what he knew about her, which was not much, he heard she was prone to bouts of melancholy.

“What did you hear, girl?” Brynden demanded, his eyes narrowing and hands balling into a fist.

“I just…” her cheeks flared with colour. “I won’t tell anyone, I swear. I wouldn’t do such a thing.” She spoke calmly in a defeated tone, fingers fumbling on her apron.

“It’s not a thing little women should be hearing,” Mern declared, his reflexes from disciplining Flora taking over. His recent fights with Dyra had meant he kept leading their daughter out of rooms for privacy. He slowly, gently pushed the door closed to shut down any protest. “You can run along and someone will find you if they need you.”

“No one ever does,” she muttered under her breath, watching Mern wistfully as he closed the door on her. 

He did not have hard feelings on the girl, but this was clearly no place for her. Her enchantment with Jaehearys was clearly a childish tendency she never grew out of. It was a flight of fancy which would be kept to the imagination. Mern had overheard talks of the Tyrells and their very eligible daughter. Pangs of jealousy he never realized were within himself emerged at the thought of _ that _ House. He could say nothing against them, however. They were powerful. Powerful from the destruction of House Gardener. He could give Jaehaerys shelter for the time and his loyalty, but _ they _ could give him so much more…

An idea began to grow. 

Mern gave the girl a tepid smile as he made to shut the door completely but found a foot had got in the way. 

_ You’re quite tenacious, girl. _

_ Good. _

“If you mean to fight, you shouldn’t overlook anyone,” she rebuked, determined.

“We are not overlooking you,” Brynden said dryly, “we can barely see you at all. In fact, I rather thought we would be looking at the door right now.”

Jenny huffed, narrowing her eyes. “I have brothers like you. They think they’re funny when they’re really being quite dull and avoidant.”

Brynden opened his mouth, but then puffed out air, sealing his lips shut in a grim line. He took his arms away from the table, placing them in his lap in a poised position. In a grave tone, Brynden lectured, “I am a Lord, girl. I would have your tongue out for speaking as such.”

Bernard moved forward in his seat. “You want it now?”

Mern could visibly see the fear creep under the girl’s skin. She looked quickly to Jae, who seemed to be rather speechless at the exchange, and then brought her attention back to Brynden, eyes hard.

“My father reprimanded one of his yeomen when he spoke against his judgement. The next time he wanted a different opinion no one spoke out because they were afraid of losing their pay. Ripping out tongues will do the same. And it seems to me you came to the smallfolk for help. So let us help. ”

“You are being too reckless,” Mern advised in a hushed voice. He stepped between Jenny and Brynden to block their view of each other. “You should go before you make this any worse,” he warned her.

“Wise words,” Brynden applauded.

“I will hear what she has to say,” Jaehearys spoke, “though I do not want to hear any more exchanges between the two of you. Brynden is deserving of respect, but I would prefer if that respect was warranted from more than your station.” He cast his gaze between the two of them

Mumbles and grunts of acceptance were uttered.

“What is it you want to say?” Jaehearys asked Jenny.

“If you need more people for your war, why not involve the women?” She asked innocently. “I can’t help but notice what a waste it is, when I know so many of my friends have nothing to do.”

“I…” Jaehaerys hesitated, taken aback from what she said. “I don’t think involving women would be good for our cause. If the men are gone, the women have to take over their work. Is that not enough?”

“Perhaps for farms, but not for more leisurely work. Daughters and wives of artisans and merchants have others to take over. I know so many women who would love to help. They are bored to tears, and the thought of doing something useful brings a smile to their face and adventure to their lives.” Her eyes were bright, determined. “We are not weak, and we are not ladies. We can work just as hard as any man.” 

“You haven’t the training nor the stamina to fight a battle,” Rolland laughed from the back. “It takes weeks to train men to do the simplest things. To train women who have never worked in the fields would be near impossible with the time we have.”

“And it would be as good as suicide for his future for him to throw women on the front lines,” Brynden added.

“But I am not suggesting that!” Jenny protested. “Half of the aspects of the Gods are female, and does not wisdom come from the Crone? To only use half of your followers is to deny the Gods, themselves. And where better are women used, than to persuade the minds and hearts of others?”

“What _ are _ you suggesting, then?” Rolland asked in disbelief.

“Why not let us sway the smallfolk of the Twins to your cause? We may not have swords, but we have words. How many have you convinced to help your plight with nothing more than the air from your lungs? Let us do for you what Septas do for the Gods.”

“But the risk of-” Mern began.

“Life is just a series of risks and adventures!” she countered, chest swelling. “You have luck with it or you don’t. But do not tell me these things that are told to ladies of Great Houses - that we are precious, delicate flowers. Those women were born into luck. We must make our own. And we have grown _ good _ at it.”

By the look in her eyes, there was nothing Mern could say to make her change her mind. 

“I’ll think on what you’ve said,” Jae spoke, clearly uncomfortable. “But what is it you came here for?”

“Oh! I’ve… It’s nothing. Something... I really shouldn’t bother you about,” she said bashfully, her cheeks flushing. “I should go. I’ve probably given you too much of my mind already. I-”

“Let me walk you out, then,” Mern interrupted, placing his hand on her back and guiding her away. “To ensure your ears are not left behind.” 

Jenny curtsied as best she could. “Your Grace,” she mumbled.

Mern closed the door behind him as he left and remained quiet until he was sure they were out of the group’s hearing.

“You’re quite taken with the young King, aren’t you, girl?” Mern said as more of a fact than a question. “I think it was obvious to everyone there,” he mentioned, watching as Jenny’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. “Except for, perhaps, the King, himself.”

Jenny shrugged his hand off her back and began to walk several feet away from him, looking far off in the distance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she muttered unconvincingly. She crossed her arms to hug herself.

“I remember when I was that age, it was difficult to know what a girl was thinking. It took my wife over a year before I understood what she wanted. Thinking back, she should have just kissed me. I would have understood, then.”

Jenny knit her brows together. “Most trouble in life comes from misunderstanding, I think.”

“Yes, there’s some truth to that,” he acknowledged. “If you stay here, I can try to convince the King to come speak to you, if you wish.”

Jenny stopped walking, concern growing in her face. “Why would you do that?”

“Is it not enough to want others to be happy?” He asked, trying to laugh a bit.

“Other’s happiness is a fine thing; but it becomes lonely and heartbreaking when everyone around you is filled by happiness that is not your own.” She brought her palm to her chest. “I know it well. I know you can not mean to do this and not expect to be happy in return. Why? What is it you want?”

Mern was taken aback. He saw her youth and treated her as he did his younger daughter. Flora never questioned a gift horse. This was his mistake.

“You’re right,” he said bashfully. “I do want something. But I won’t take it from you. If you can capture the King’s attention, that would be enough for me.”

“Why?” she prodded further.

“They are trying to form an alliance with the wrong House, I think,” Mern admitted, not willing to clarify further. “If you give me time, I hope to persuade them that it’s folly.”

“So my happiness would be fleeting.”

“Your happiness will be what you make it.”

She had eventually relented. Mern returned to his house, promising many more things than he thought he had needed to. She was smarter than she looked, but also struck with romance. At her age, love and romance always won between the two.

“I believe,” Mern said to Jae as he entered again through the door, “that Jenny wants to give you something. I’ve sat her at the edge of my field and told her you’d have to come find her if you want to.”

Jaehearys got up from his chair and began walking towards the door when Brynden called out to him.

“Don’t go after her,” he said in a calm, yet pleading voice. “Let her leave.”

“She has something for me.”

“It’s not the most pressing matter at this time.”

“Then I’ll be quick,” he assured Brynden, rushing out the door. Rolland followed slowly behind, raising an eyebrow towards Brynden before exiting the house.

It was quiet as the door closed and darkness settled over the room again. The flame light flickering over Brynden’s face gave Mern the distinct impression that he was brooding over something.

“From what I've heard,” Mern said, trying to lighten the mood. “Jenny’s a good, young woman. Never gotten into much trouble.”

“If she was simply _ good _, I would not be as worried as I am.” Brynden shook his head. “If humans could only be one thing, then that would be splendid, indeed. I could depend on a good person to do a good thing. But that is not reality, is it?” he said eyeing Mern strangely, accusational. “There are too many emotions humans must deal with to do the logical thing. There is so much irrationality to it all, and it makes it a chore to reason with them.” He placed his head in his hands, and muttered something under his breath. Bernard chuckled at it. 

He spoke indifferently, as if he was above the human condition. Only the Gods were, though. Could this man have delusions of grandeur? He certainly was able to spot a King from a Bastard, but did it run deeper?

Mern felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of his face.

The owl hooted, shuffled its feathers, and flew up to a higher rafter. It swiveled its head around and closed its eyes, content with its perch.

“Of course,” he placated. “But, to beg your pardon,” Mern said, pursing his lips, “I really don’t understand why this owl has taken residence in my house.”

Brynden huffed, shook his head, and went back to peering at his papers. He dipped his quill, scratched something out, and wrote below it.

The ensuing silence left Mern feeling uncomfortable. 

_ In my own home no less! This Lord-knight and his haughtiness! _

“Err,” Bernard spoke, breaking the silence. “His name’s Archimeadys.”

As if that explained it all.

“Is he your pet?” Mern prodded.

“Well, no. I don’t think so. Perhaps? I’m not sure. He’s rather smart for a bird, as if he knows what we’re talking about. It’s rather upsetting, really.” 

The owl opened its eyes, appearing to glare at Bernard, before closing them again.

Jae opened the door and sunlight streamed back into the room, blinding Mern for a moment. It was clear to see, however, that the young King was flush. His hands were flustering with something, shoving it untidily into a pocket within his jerkin.

Rolland followed behind, a smirk etched across his face.

Jaehaerys cleared his throat, composing himself. “We should continue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am still here! I was going to post last weekend, but many things happened in the world, and I thought it better to just press pause here and let other, more important, matters keep the stage. Fanfics can wait a little.
> 
> Again, I’d like to thank everyone who has given kudos and left feedback on this work and subscribed for more :D It really elevates my day after reading and watching too much news and being confined to home. 
> 
> With that being said, I hope everyone stays safe and supports each other as best as they can.


	22. Chapter 20: Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Stormborn awakens

“I shall send for you when I have taken my throne back from the Usurper,” Viserys told her before he stepped onto the largest carrack she had ever seen. It rivalled some of the manses in the hills of Pentos. Of course, not all the ships pledged to Viserys’ cause were this grand or war-ready, but he had amassed a sizable fleet, enough to rival the Baratheon on Dragonstone. Or so he said. One hundred and sixty-seven ships, though Viserys boasted two hundred strong to any who would listen. They would ferry troops and enough food to host the men for a week on land, until they could make use of the fields and farms of Westeros. His troops consisted of household guards and men bought with coin, whose loyalty remained with him for a steep price. Viserys wasn’t worried about the technicalities of it, however. He knew the smallfolk were on his side and would happily host his army. Besides, he had a dragon, big enough to almost ride. Viserys claimed that by the time he reached Kings Landing, he would be able to fly over the walls and onto the throne.

Young Griff didn’t think so. Daenerys had found a confidant in the young man in a way she never thought possible. One moment she would be talking about the weather and her brother’s well-being, and the next she would be speaking of how she wished Viserys had never hatched that dragon. It was a terrible thing to say. Treasonous. But speaking treason somehow lifted a weight from her mind. A little more was lifted when he agreed. 

“I shouldn’t say these things,” she said morosely. “I should hope for him to be victorious over our enemies. That is our only way forward now.”

“Your thoughts are safe with me, princess,” Young Griff told her, squeezing her hands tenderly. “The future is full of endless possibilities.”

She had tried to stop thinking of the future. What use was it when she found no joy there? It was agonizing to watch her brother become something she didn’t recognize. He had hurt her in the past, but she understood that behind the rage was fear and loathing of what they had become. She felt it just like he had. It had not materialized in quite the same way, but had festered away at her heart and spread to her mind like a disease does to bones and flesh. It was only when she had had time away from Viserys, away from his hatred and oppressive rule, that she realized that life could be quite lovely.

The first time was six moons ago when Viserys was off recruiting more families to his cause. It was raining, and the splatter against the pavestones and the glass windows allowed her to cozy herself into a grand settee with goose pillows surrounded by several shelves of books. She drifted off reading histories of her ancestors when she was pleasantly awoken by a maid bringing her tea and sweets. Dany wanted to apologize for her indolence, but, of course, had nothing to apologize for. It was after she had gone an entire day without a punishment or slight, that she realized it was only Viserys who disliked her behaviour. No one else bothered her, except for if she wanted them to.

Dany found she often wanted to be bothered - needed it. She craved the small moments between her handmaids while they readied her for the day. They would speak to her about their home in Norvos or Myr or Bravos, and tell her about their childhood when she asked of it. She never realized how much she had wanted this. This calmness. This routine. This kindling of respect from others.

Outside in the gardens, she would be followed by Griff and Young Griff, where they would spend pleasant afternoons together. Griff would stand guard a few feet away while she and Young Griff would sit and talk. He would tell her of all the places they had travelled and been to, all the people they had encountered. She would share similar stories, but they always elicited the wrong response from Young Griff. She would tell him with a laugh and a smile how she had done something naughty and Viserys would go screeching mad over it. Viserys had always reminisced about those stories the same way as her. Young Griff didn’t find those stories as amusing. 

“Princesses shouldn’t be hurt by their own family.”

One afternoon particularly stood out in her mind, though. When Viserys was away, Young Griff brought a cyvasse board with beautiful jade and alabaster figurines. She had never played the game before but had watched others, intrigued by rules and intricacies of the game. After explaining how it worked, Young Griff had claimed the alabaster set while she took the jade. It was a close game, but she had ultimately won.

“Beginners luck,” Young Griff huffed as he packed the pieces away.

“Do you want to play again?” she asked him, hopeful.

“No,” he muttered, grinding his teeth.

She had clearly upset him. She had feigned ignorance of the trap she had set for Young Griff near the end, declaring her victory after showing he was surrounded. She should have known better. Men did not like to be beaten by women. She was beginning to believe Viserys’ behaviour was an exception, but it was clearly the rule. 

Her handmaids confirmed it. They were all older than her by a few years and were pleased to talk to her about any of her questions. Except for a few topics, of course. Whenever she asked about Illyrio or the Masked Ghost, or what they had heard about the two Griffs, they would quickly change the topic for her. It initially hadn’t bothered her, and Dany thought nothing of it. Recently though, she began to suspect something more from their silence.

She could understand their censor upon Illyrio, he was their master of sorts. There were not supposed to be any slaves in Pentos, but it was clear that they were in all but name. The Ghost she was sure was in her head. But as for Griff and Young Griff, were they not servants like themselves? Why would they not want to speak of them?

Viserys had caught her talking to the two in the gardens one evening, and grabbed her by the arm, dragging her back to the manse.

“Who were those men?” he hissed, eyes aflame.

“They’re guards,” she squeaked. “The younger one is his squire. They’re from Westeros and wholly support you.”

“They should be talking to  _ me _ , not you!” he snarled. “I’ll have a talk with Illyrio. Young Ladies need not speak with guards. You should go back to talking with your maidservants if you want to open your mouth. You can talk about boring, girlish things with them.”

She became more cautious around the two Griffs. She began to take note of how often he would ‘accidentally’ find her alone in the gardens. Dany had thought Young Griff was friendly, but his insistence after her rebuffs were jarring. 

“You can trust me, Daenerys,” he told her, catching her hand as she turned away to return to Illyrio’s Manse. The skies were beginning to turn cloudy and droplets of water started to splatter across her nose and head. “I am not like Viserys.”

Dany grabbed her hand away. “ _ King  _ Viserys,” she corrected him. “And I am not in the habit of trusting everyone who  _ says _ they can be trusted.”

“What have I done?” he yelled exasperated. His brows knit together as the anger built up in his body. “Have I not been nice to you?”

Dany was taken back by this outburst. She had never seen a squire so unbeholden to his station. In truth, he had been nice to her. Was that not expected of him, though? She had welcomed their talks at first, she was glad to confide in someone. But now she realized it was a mistake. There was too much she didn’t know about him, and too much risk to herself if she continued.

_ I am blood of the dragon. _

“I am a dutiful sister to his grace. I’m sorry if I misled you, but if our talks should continue, we should no longer speak of my brother.”

“B-but we… I…” he bit his tongue, trying his best to silence himself. 

Griff walked over to the two of them, noticing they were at odds with each other. “Shall we make ourselves scarce?” he asked. Dany wasn’t sure if he was speaking to herself or Young Griff, however.

Young Griff ground his teeth together, staring at her. There was something flying through his mind, aching the back of his throat, needing to get out. She wouldn’t let him say it. She had seen this with Viserys. It was always a remark which would cut her deep, and she was not about to let a squire hurt her.

“You should leave,” she told them, her face a placid mask.

Young Griff nodded his head and turned to go. The pair walked back to the manse, Griff clearly admonishing him. 

Dany held her head high as she watched them walk away. It was better this way.

Her heart dropped to her stomach. It felt like she was watching her only confidant walk away. She had to remain loyal to Viserys, though. Young Griff brought too much hatred out of her. Dany had decided she could hate Viserys, but it must remain in her heart, for Viserys was bound to find out otherwise. Allowing the conversation to drift his way could be disastrous for the both of them.

_ It was fine to tell him that, I’m sure. It’s a frivolous matter anyway, _ she consoled herself as she watched the backs of their heads.  _ I am a princess. _

The concept of being a princess had always been foreign to her, however, and it was only recently that she began to use that muscle. 

The rain began to fall in earnest. Dany watched from beneath a willow as the flagstones beneath the canopy became speckled and dark with water. Pools began to form as she thought over her actions.

She never wanted to make anyone upset, but where her brother was concerned, it seemed inevitable that someone would be. She released her breath in a long sigh as she walked slowly back towards the manse, avoiding puddles forming in the muddy, rocky paths.

Her route brought her before the front entrance and she was met with Illyrio and a portly, greying man with flushed cheeks and a hard eye on Illyrio.

“My, my! Princess Daenerys! Such a treat to have been graced with your presence!” Illyrio announced, cutting off the round, old man about to speak.

The old man turned in her direction, spitting out an exasperated sigh before turning his frown into an angry smile.

Dany paused, unsure of what she should say since she was unsure of who she was addressing. She felt rather conscious of herself, though, as her hair and dress were drenched from the short walk she took outside. She quickly wiped rain droplets from her nose and brow as she dipped into a bow.

Her voice was stilted and low, “A pleasure to meet you.”

“It seems you’ve gotten caught in the rain! I’ll send your maids to help you in a moment. But it just so happens,” Illyrio smiled cruelly, looking towards the portly man, “That the Captain-General, here, is very insistent that we have a little chat immediately.”

The portly man nodded towards her, his eyes sharp as steel. “Strickland,” he announced bluntly. 

Dany nodded her head towards him.

“Now if you excuse us, we won’t be long.” Illyrio bowed towards her before escorting the captain-general Strickland towards his private side of the manse.

Dany remained still for a moment, watching as they walked further and further down the hall, before turning and disappearing from view.

She grit her teeth for a moment, unsure what she meant to do. Should she just go back to her room? What they meant to speak of could concern Viserys, though. And any information about her brother should concern her as well. Why must she always be kept in the dark?

_ I am blood of the dragon, _ she chanted in her head over and over, coming to a decision as it crescendoed. 

Dany did her best to wring her dress out and dry her feet. It would do no good if they exited the room to find a pool of water outside it. She hitched her dress up and plodded down the hall towards where the two men went, being careful to not make a noise as she neared the turn from whence the men disappeared beyond. 

She turned the corner and found another long hallway. It looked remarkably the same as the other side of the manse, with high open arches on one side with rooms overlooking the courtyard on the other. But most guests were not allowed to tread here, including herself. Dany steadied her breath as she carefully placed her feet upon the tile flooring. She tried to pace up to each door and open her ears to any noises within, but it was rather difficult with the rain splattering behind her. She was ready to give up. Perhaps they went to the next floor. Dany didn’t think her resolve to eavesdrop on them would extend there.

Then a great sound came from the furthest door.

“What do you mean to do with all this nonsense?” the captain-general harangued Illyrio within the room. This caught Dany’s attention. Would this be about her brother? She carefully stepped closer to the door, pressing her ear against the panel. “Is it not enough that you’re giving him all this money and military strength? You gave  _ him _ a-!” There was a pause as his voice began to rise. Dany could hear him pace back and forth beyond the door. When the pacing stopped, he continued. “You gave  _ him _ a dragon? When you told me your plan, I did not expect the steps to get there to be so poorly laid. And what about Aegon? Do you expect him to crawl up to that deranged fool begging for the scraps of  _ his _ rightful Kingdom?”

_ Aegon? _

“NEVER!” Illyrio growled, causing Dany to flinch back from the door. “Speak his name.”

There was a long silence. Dany could hear footsteps and liquid being poured into a glass. 

“It was not supposed to happen this way. It was supposed to be years from now, when Robert and his queen would have torn Westeros apart from the inside out. These are desperate times, where dragons roam the skies and kings sprout up from the ground like flowers in spring snow.”

There was a faint sound of shuffling as the two men let the words linger in the room.

“Princess!” a woman hissed from behind her.

Dany spun around, fear gripping her as she thought of what punishment she might endure for eavesdropping.

It was one of her handmaidens carrying linens in her arms. Her eyes were wide and her mouth agape at what she saw. “You mustn’t be caught idle near here!” she whispered fiercely. “This is the master’s quarters. Only he can invite you to stay!” 

Dany nearly sprang away from the door as she spoke. She could feel her heart pounding in her head from being caught by her maid. She did not want to know what it felt like to be caught by Illyrio. 

Dany grasped the woman on her arms and sought her eyes, trying to convey a sense of desperation, thankfulness, and honesty she was not used to sharing.

“I thank you for your guidance, and ask that you not repeat what you’ve seen here to your master. Please. I’m just looking for good news about my brother.” Dany managed a smile, though she was not sure it was convincing.

The handmaid bit her lip, but nodded her head.

Dany let out a breath she had been holding since she’d been caught. “Thank you,” she whispered before fleeing back to her chambers.

_ Aegon. Aegon. Who’s Aegon? Is that the False King in Westeros? _ Her thoughts flew as fast as she ran. As soon as she found her room, she shut the door behind herself, locking it. She brought out a collection of essays and opinions titled  _ On Robert’s Rebellion _ . It was a book she secreted to her chambers from the main library. The two Griffs had spotted her carrying a stack, and instead of reprimanding her, Young Griff had noted his own favourite writing. He claimed the book was heretical in Westeros and copies could only be found on the eastern side of the Narrow Sea.

_Which one did he like?_ _What was the title? Was it not the Lannister words? Hear me Roar?_

She skipped to the chapter and skimmed the text, looking for any mention of Aegon.

_ They couldn’t possibly be talking about Rhaegar’s son. Was he not killed by the Lannisters? _

Her eyes stopped when she found the name.

_“Clegane_ _lay before Robert Baratheon the children of Prince Rhaegar and Elia Martell, Aegon and Rhaenys. It was said by witnesses afterward that Rhaenys was dragged from under her father’s bed and stabbed over fifty times, by whom is still unclear. Aegon’s head was smashed in before his mother, who was then raped and killed by Gregor Clegane after knowing her children were destroyed.”_

Dany had to pause, her heart weakening in its endeavour to discover the truth. She envisioned before her all the terrible atrocities committed against her kin. This was written about her own flesh and blood, her niece and nephew. Though she never knew them, it pained her still to think of what could have been - what never will be. She could see tiny fingers reaching up to a faceless woman, cooing over the babe. If only they had survived, she would have had a family...

Dany steeled her heart and continued reading.

“ _ There were whispers after these cruelties had come to light. Speculations ran rampant as it seemed too horrible for any human to commit against another. Tales were, of course, spun around Tywin Lannister. Already a fearsome man after the destruction of the Reines, Tywin absorbed blame for the savagery of this act like cotton to water. It has been variously speculated that Tywin had given the orders to kill Elia and the children, that he only wanted the children killed, or that he wanted no one killed, but could not control his men when the looting started. The latter seems to be more farce than fact; Tywin had devised the complete destruction of a House before, so why would he hold back now? _

“ _ Other rumours spread as well, the most interesting of which held some traction in the Citadel for some months after the end of the Rebellion before being squashed by the upper echelons of the establishment. It was hypothesized that Aegon Targaryen had survived the sack of King Landing, being spirited away beforehand to be replaced by another babe. It gained the attention of students when Dorne, after standing its ground in the fight against Robert’s usurpation, suddenly quieted down after a visit by Jon Arryn. This, of course, was baseless. Jon Arryn had returned the body of Llywen Martell, and had spoken of wanting peace between the Kingdoms once again. Prince Doran Martell, a peaceful man himself, agreed.” _

None of this made sense. Was Aegon alive? The author didn’t seem to think so, but Illyrio and the Captain had spoken of him nevertheless. Young Griff seemed to know about the contents of this particular chapter, but this chapter, overall, was about the acts of aggression by House Lannister during the rebellion. Mayhaps there was a rational explanation. Mayhaps Young Griff merely liked reading about the history of the fall of House Targaryen.

But then why did Aegon link all these things together?

_ If Aegon is alive, then my brother cannot be King. If Illyrio knows this, why would he be supporting my brother? It seemed as though Strickland wants Aegon to be King… Does he mean Viserys harm? _

It took a moment before she thought about herself. What did this mean for  _ her _ ?

_ If they meant to kill us, would that not have happened already? It would have been easy to kill us in the night with guards loyal to Illyrio.  _ She halted her thoughts on this, for fear of never being able to sleep again. She turned to something else.

Just who  _ was _ Aegon?

Dany placed herself at the desk in her room which overlooked the courtyard. There were beautifully crafted mosaics and paintings on the ground of men and women in acts of war and play. They were so lifelike that she had mistaken them at one point for real people. 

She slumped her head onto her hands as she gazed through the window, trying to tie her thoughts together.

_ Do I warn Viserys? How would I do that? He is on a ship sailing away to Westeros already. Will there be a trap when he arrives? Can I do anything to ensure our safety from Pentos? _

It seemed all too much for a 13 year old.

It was then that the two Griffs walked across the courtyard. Young Griff led the way, his blue hair bouncing with his haste. She had found it strange how the older Griff would always trail after the younger. Should it not be the other way around? Do not squires assist the knight, not the knight, the squire?

_ Unless… _

The game became clear to her, as if a cloth was removed from the board. The pieces had always been there, but she was merely seeing the outline of the figures. Now, she could see the intricate details carved into each figure.

Young Griff was Aegon. Illyrio had sent Viserys away. Aegon wanted to be friends with her. She should have known better. How often had Viserys told her she was only good for marriage?

_ Beware the perfumed seneschal, the griffin, and mummer's dragon, _ the masked ghost had told her. Is this who she meant? Dany had thought she referred to the false dragon across the sea. But who was the mummer? And who were the griffin and seneschal? Why must she have spoken so cryptically? 

_ If Aegon is true, then someone from Kings Landing must have helped to move him across the sea, and so that must be how Illyrio knows things in Westeros. But this doesn’t explain why Illyrio would want to help Aegon, while being deceitful to Viserys and I. _

Dany felt like she had more questions than answers, which was worrisome when she found herself surrounded by adders. Though she discovered what the game was, she could not determine her opponent’s next move. She needed to know what 

_ What was that old saying? Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer? _

Dany had to make amends with Young Griff, and perhaps extract a confession out of him like he had of her.

For if they meant Viserys harm, what hope was there for her when he was gone?

_ Be brave, Daenerys Stormborn, _ the ghost had said. 

Dany steadied her breath, remembering herself. She was a princess of House Targaryen. Stormborn. And she would find out who was friend and who was foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it bee a month?! Ooops. Life just got away from me and I haven't been able to keep up the writing pace with this story. That's not to say I haven't been writing at all over the past several weeks. I have been trying to write ahead when I found time, but just couldn't continue with this particular chapter. August is going to be busy for me, so I've been trying to make this side part of my life easier. I'm going to try to publish the next chapter before the end of the month, but I can't guarantee any release schedule for August. Sorry. The next chapters will be Bobby B, Catelyn, and Jon/Jae-cob Jingleheimer Schmidt. 👌
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the comments and kudos! Positive feedback or constructive critique lets me know how I'm doing! Also, thank you for having patience with this story! These are unprecedented times, and many unprecedented things pop their heads up unprecedentedly. I hope everyone is safe and healthy despite it, though!


	23. Chapter 21: Robert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby B is back and he's ready for action.

It had been a year of the damn fool plan not working. He should have marched an army in, torn apart the Riverlands until he found the dragon spawn. He was a man who listened to reason most of the time though, and thought Jon had a reasonable point.

“You cannot terrorize the smallfolk until you find a band of men. It would be no different from when Connington tried to find you at the Battle of the Bells, only this would be over the entirety of the Riverlands. Offer rewards for information. Offer Lordships to hedge knights for his capture. Make it easy for the Riverlands to side with you. Marching armies through fields and eating the food they should be saving for the winter does not do you favours. It’s been a year anyways, Robert, and he had not shown his face. There was that one band of huntsmen who went missing, but we can hardly say it was them when Lord Darry swears he heard no mention of them in his lands.”

It was maddening: reason. Reason was complicated and painstakingly slow. War, that was easy. Kill the bastards on the other side of the field. Simple. Give him a hammer and he would show the dragon spawn the last thing Rhaegar saw. 

But he was merely a Lord in rebellion back then. Perhaps his mistake was listening to Jon reason him into kingship.

Robert began to pick his hammer up again. He knew he looked a right fool with his gut bulging out from under his armour, but no one dared to laugh at the king. He laughed for them. And he laughed at them when his own damned Kingsguard barely put up a fight. They were supposed to protect him, and they barely fought back. It was a farce, to be sure. But Robert would take this matter into his own hands if he had to. Simply holding his war hammer made his heart beat faster - made him straighten his spine and pull back his shoulders. He felt young again, felt his old desires emerging from the deep, dark recesses of his being.

He ate and drank less. There was something about simply _ knowing _ that a dragon spawn was in his lands which fed him throughout the day. This was not to say he stopped eating and drinking altogether, but when even his damned wife took notice, he knew it must have been significant. In a half year’s time, he had to order an entirely new wardrobe for himself. He was not as slim as he used to be, but neither was he as round. He felt a strength in his arms he had not felt in a long time, and it bolstered him to pursue the root cause of this newfound might: the dragon spawn.

The only thing that had not changed was his trips to the brothels and secreting women to his chambers in the evenings. Cersei had made sure of this. He could barely look at her, the mother of his own children, and think about getting it up. A man had his needs though, and, as king, he made sure they were met.

Cersei. He thought it would have been impossible to despise a beautiful woman. She made it all too easy, though. From the way she whispered into Joff’s ear whenever misfortune occurred before them, or when she clawed the children into her grasp when he made to teach _ his _ children a lesson. He should be reprimanding the boy more severely, he could see that now. He could also see he had to get Cersei away from Joff before he turned out more Lannister than Baratheon.

His fears began when Joff was young. He had brought before him a mutilated cat with her kittens ripped out. His eyes shone so brightly in his childish face at what he had done, but Robert could not overcome the revulsion which came with seeing what his own flesh and blood had done. He had hit the boy. He had tried to hold back, but Joff flew across the room like a bolt loosed from a crossbow. 

While he did not regret the punishment, he did regret the force with which he used. The boy treated him more like his king rather than his father. This was not inherently a bad thing to Robert, but it meant the lad would go to his mother now with all his thoughts and impulses. And his mother was a vile creature.

This had not been a concern of his until recently. When his head became clear with the swing of his hammer, when sweat dripped from his brow and his muscles ached from the tiniest movement, he began to think clearly.

The boy needed to be separated from Cersei. A few years should do it until he becomes a man, grown. He had spoken to Jon casually about fostering Joff. Jon had said he was even thinking of bringing _ his _ boy to be fostered with Tywin. Nothing had been agreed to, but he was hopeful that their sons could grow up together, or else the switching of boys would benefit them both. It was only their wives who disdained their plans.

But this was something to be discussed later. Presently, Robert tapped his fingers upon his desk in his solar, waiting for a servant to bring Jon to him. He wanted to know what the small council members had been discussing before he entered the damned room and not be completely blind. He had missed the last several meetings having just come back from Stonedance. House Massey had been persistent in taking over Harrenhal, and Robert had put off dealing with the damned place for months. He finally decided to put his crown on and ride over there to treat with them on the subject but had been put off by the heir of the House, Justin Massey. The man was all smiles and pleasantries. It felt as though his good temper was itching the surface of Robert’s skin. He’d become irritable by the end of the week he spent there and refused them the castle and lands. He was more inclined to give it to one of the Lannister branches than them.

Jon should have been the one to go, but he had complained of stomach troubles and muscle weakness the day before. He was better suited to drink and dine with Lords and beat out an agreement. Robert had always admired him for it, and hated his insistence that he do it himself as well.

There was a soft knock at the door, which Robert ignored.

_ No king should have to answer to such a half-hearted, piss-poor knock. _

A moment passed before a stronger, louder knock could be heard. This time to yelled for whoever it was to enter.

A blond, skinny boy entered the room with half-sunken eyes. 

_ Looks like a Lannister _, Robert bemoaned as the boy bowed, stepping into the room.

“I’m s-sorry, Your Grace. Jon A-Arryn is quite s-sick, and cannot come, Your Grace,” the boy squeaked.

Robert ground his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “Is it serious?”

“I…” the boy stuttered. “I cannot say, Your Grace.”

“What did the maesters say? What do the people in the room look like?”

“I- er. There was n-no one else in his r-room, Your Grace.”

_ It can’t be that bad, if his wife is not there, can it? A week sick, though? I will have to visit him later. _

Robert waved at the boy, “Leave,” he said. The boy fled as though there was a fire at his heels.

He groaned as he stood up, his chair scraping across the floor. He put his hand on his hips and stretched his back before slouching forward. He could hear his mother telling him not to slouch in the distant corners of his mind, but he could no longer distinguish if it was truly her voice, or something he imagined was hers. Time sapped everything from him. As he looked down, finally able to see his feet again after years of not being able to, he thought that maybe he could still take something back.

Robert marched down the hall in a flurry, his Kingsguard rushing to catch up with his sudden vigor. 

“There better be good news!” Robert demanded in a huff as he entered the council room. “And no one else better fall sick! I’ve got seven Kingdoms to rule and must have seven members of my council.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Little Finger smirked as Robert took his place at the head of the table. 

“Well, what have you decided is the best-laid plan?” Robert demanded, throwing his hand out to gesture to all his council. There was a silence amongst the group as beady eyes all looked towards him. Robert couldn’t decide if they stared in exaltation or contempt. Perhaps it was both. 

Stannis cleared his throat before he spoke and placed his palm upon the table. “We should march several armies through the Riverlands to smoke him out.”

Robert ground his teeth together. This had been a contentious issue, but now that one person is gone, they changed their minds so easily. “It hasn’t even been a fortnight since I was told the opposite.”

“Because Jon was the main proponent for that,” Renly explained with a tsk. “We all agree amongst ourselves that a direct course of action is better.”

Robert scoured the faces at the table, trying to read the validity of his flippant brother’s words. Something was off.

“Where’s Varys, now?” he asked, annoyed. “Is this not a war council meeting? Where is my Master of Whispers?”

The table looked around at each other, as if surprised the face next to them was not Varys’. They shook their heads confused. None of them knew.

“You there,” Robert called to the guard at the door, “Go grab Varys. Drag him here, if you must.” The guard bowed and left the room, only to be replaced shortly by a new guard. 

“Selmy!” Robert barked. “Why is this the best course of action now?”

The old Lord Commander bowed his head and clasped his hands on the table, quickly trying to bring his thoughts together.

“The tactics we’ve been using haven’t been working. It is foolish to continue to do something we now know won’t work. It would be better to march through the Riverlands to force the other’s hand, than it would be to allow the… other actor to continue in relative secrecy.”

“And what will Jon say once he gets better?”

“Oh,” Little Finger smirked, “Most likely that we’re war-hungry fools.”

Robert harrumphed, drumming his fingers on the table. “How much will this cost us?”

“I’m sure Tywin will be able to-” 

“I didn’t ask about the damned Lannisters! I asked how much it will cost us!” Robert interrupted Baelish.

“Several thousand to a million, depending on how big you want the standing army and if you want assistance from... reliable allies.” Little Finger seemed tense, as if it took everything within his thin, wispy frame not to reply hotly towards his King.

_ Let him fidget and flounder. The Master of Coin has been sitting too comfortably on the Crown’s mountain of debt these past few years. _

Robert balled his fist. This was beginning to bring an ache to his temple. His fingers itched for a cup to hold and his tongue longed for an Arbor Red. The crown was already indebted and Robert loathed to have to beg Tywin for more of the gold he pissed.

“Are there no other,_ less costly _, options?” Robert asked through his teeth.

His council looked at each other, shocked by the words which sprung from his mouth.

“T-To continue with what we have been doing,” Selmy answered, raising his eyebrows high.

Robert was surprised to hear these words from himself as well, but the past few months had beaten into him that if he wanted something to be done, it better be done well. There were no half measures when his hammer swung down. When he swung, he meant to kill. When he wanted the dragon spawn to be captured, he wanted him in chains by yesterday. Perhaps it was time to stop listening to Jon’s half measures. He needed to end this once and for all.

“Fine,” he grumbled, coming to a decision. “We’ll send an army in. Tell the Seven Kingdoms to-”

The doors burst open, beyond which two guards were escorting a rather pale Varys. His head was bowed so only the top of his bald, gleaming head was shown to the room.

“My Lords,” the Master of Whispers announced, bowing even deeper as he stood before his chair at the table. Instead of seating himself, however, he raised his head and walked towards Robert. Bending down once more he began to whisper in his ear. Robert allowed it, though only because he was perplexed by this behaviour.

“I’m afraid I have some troubling news, Your Grace. I thought it rather pertinent that I tell you first before you decide whether the rest should hear of it.” Varys paused to look for a sign to go on. Robert, grinding his teeth, made a motion to continue with his hand. “It seems the beggar king from the east has found himself an army alongside a dragon, hatched almost a year ago. I would be remiss not to tell you that he is currently on his way to Westeros with over one hundred and sixty ships in tow.”

Robert clenched his fist, ready to strike the messenger.

“Is that all?” Robert snarled, barely allowing air to pass through his teeth for fear of screaming.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“DAMMIT ALL!” Robert roared, his fist pounding the table, sending a shock wave to the far end. His council sat back, startled by his rage.

_ They shouldn’t be. They should know that mine is the fury. _

“Care to share, brother?” Renly asked with a haughty smile on his lips.

_ The lot of them are fools. Fools and lickspittles who have no idea the danger they put the realm in. They should have listened to me in the beginning. I shouldn’t have listened to them. I should have done what I knew needed to be done in the beginning. _

“THE DAMNED BEGGAR KING THINKS HE CAN MAKE WAR AGAINST THE THRONE!” he yelled, his eyes ablaze. He could feel his throat become coarse with the effort. Robert had not been infuriated like this for a while. “I SHOULD HAVE KILLED THE BASTARD FOURTEEN YEARS AGO!”

There was a quiet murmur around the table as the information soaked into them.

Robert could barely control his breathing let alone any other part of his body. He stood up from his chair and slammed his fist into the table, the pain vibrating up his arm gave him something to focus his anger on. “I’ll have his head on a spike if he even so much as places a toe on my land!” he snarled. “I’ll pluck his eyes from his sockets and tongue from his mouth and leave his body to the sea. Those who helped him will know I’m coming when his body washes up on their shore.” Robert didn’t know what he was saying, but knew that spitting his venom now helped ease some of the tension in his mind.

“Your Grace, if I may?” Varys said as he slyly walked back to his seat. He placed himself upon it as the rest of the table quieted. “I may have a plan to help rid us of two problems at little expense to yourself.”

“Why are we only hearing about this now?” Stannis demanded. Robert could see his eyes burning near as brightly as his own. He was thankful someone could voice his thoughts when Robert’s own were spinning much too rapidly in his head to make any sense of. All Robert wanted to do right now was kill something, he wanted to fight this anger out of his system. He had enough wherewithal to know that standing and clenching his fist was the most he should do at the moment, however.

“I’m afraid my little birds across the sea were not as… informed with particulars as I might have liked. While there was news about Viserys making moves around Pentos, it seemed no different from the other reports we’ve heard about before. Viserys would board with the elite and beg for aid, and nothing would happen. Wash, rinse, and repeat. It seems something had been happening, unfortunately for us, just beneath the surface of where my birds couldn’t see. It was not until a fleet converged that it became apparent what they’d been doing.” 

From the corner of his eye, he could see Stannis narrow his eyes and sit back in his seat, while the rest of the table sprung forward.

“We need to rip them out root and...”

“...meet them head-on before they…”

“... Dragonstone needs to be…”

“QUIET!” Robert demanded, the adrenaline in his blood subsiding. Clarity finally came back to his mind and he could see the disaster they would be in if decisions weren’t made quickly. “What is your plan Varys - make it quick.”

Varys bowed his head, “Lead the beggar king towards the pretender. Let Viserys deal with this problem now, so that we have time to deal with him later.”

There was a heavy silence that followed.

“What,” Pycelle coughed, as if awakening from a deep slumber, “makes you think Viserys would go after the pretender in the Riverlands and not the Throne? And not Dragonstone for that matter?”

“We will force his hand. Route him like sheep towards where the pretender is.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” Renly asked flabbergasted. “I doubt any shepherds we might have at our disposal would be able to lead these men towards a fruitless battle.”

“My dear Renly, you think too literally,” Varys tsked. 

“You can’t be saying we should scorch the earth,” Selmy gasped, his hands turning into balls. “It takes years to recover those crops and the maesters are saying a long winter is about to be upon us!”

Pycelle nodded his head in agreement. “It’s true. It’s true,” he mumbled.

“We must sink his fleet before he even sees our shores!” Selmy continued to protest, trying to lock eyes on Robert. His armoured chest puffed from his exasperation.

Robert suddenly felt calm. Collected. Cool, despite the hot warm breeze flowing through the windows. 

“And what of you, Stannis?” Robert asked slowly, the anger and fury simmering under his statement.

“I must go back to Dragonstone,” he replied. His eyes were urgent, hungry, bitter. Robert could see that there was nothing else to be said to his brother. He knew when Stannis had an idea in his head, he would rather break and lose everything than to ever give an inch of concession. 

“Then go,” Robert replied flatly, waving his Master of Ships away. He was needed there anyway. It would be no use having him here while he stewed in his seat, boiling with whatever it was which got him heated. Perhaps he worried for his wife and daughter? Robert grimaced at the thought. His daughter perhaps, but the thought of Stannis’s wife sent a cold shiver down his spine and sent his balls recoiling inwards. At least Cersei was fine to look upon.

Stannis bowed his head and made to leave the room without so much as a glance towards anyone else. Robert would get answers out of him before he left, though. He’d never seen this type of determination to leave from Stannis before.

“You’re just going to let him go? When we’re at war?” Renly asked, perplexed.

_ I sometimes wonder if you’re not still a child. _

“You dare question your King?” Robert yelled, shutting the boy up. Renly shrank back. It was clear he was now tempered to something more malleable. “Do you have anything useful to say?” he asked.

Renly shook his head, wide-eyed like a child, causing Robert’s lip to twitch. How has this man been his Master of Laws for all this time?

“Well,” Baelish interjected, grinning at the exchange which just occurred. “I don’t claim to be a battle strategist, but razing fields could be quite costly long-term. For now, though...” he paused, stroking his wispy beard in thought.

_ As if he has all the time in the world_, Robert raged internally.

“Well?” he questioned, his voice harsh.

“It’s quite cheap to raze fields is it not? And I’m sure the Lords will be fine with their King doing what needs be done.”

_ The Lords. Gods. _

“The Lords of the Riverlands will be damned if they let this dragon spawn into their homes,” Robert cursed, finally settling back into his seat. 

“Your Grace,” Selmy said tentatively. “What about the smallfolk?”

“Do you think they’ll be better under the beggar’s rule?” he asked, irritated. His temper began to flare again. “Do you think he means to bring them health and happiness with his army and dragon?”

Something grew inside Selmy, wanting to burst forth in retort. Instead, he bit his tongue. He balled his fists on the table as he looked away from Robert.

_ Let them fight each other for me. Yes. That’s a fine plan if ever there was one. Let one kill the other. Then I’ll come in and get another taste of dragon blood which I’ve been craving all these years. I’ll kill them until they’re as dead as their dra... Well, then I’ll piss on their graves. _

“Selmy. Renly. Draft a letter to send to the Crownsland and Riverland Lords informing them of what action they need to take. I want them to-”

“Do you know how many Lords are in the two regions?” Renly complained, exasperated.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m the King of the Seven damned Kingdoms! Have I not been ruling for the past decade?” Robert bellowed. “You better start now if you think you can’t write them all by nightfall!”

Renly nearly scampered out of the room, tail between his legs while Selmy took a moment to consider Robert. 

“Do I need to repeat myself, Selmy?” he asked calmly, though he bristled from Renly’s child-like behaviour.

“No, Your Grace. I’ll find some squires to help with the task.”

Robert nodded his head, “Off with you, then.” 

Selmy bowed before leaving the room.

“Baelish,” Robert called as soon as the Lord Commander left, Selmy’s words weighing on his mind. “Send a raven to the Tyrells telling them to increase the Reach’s harvest for the foreseeable future. I can’t leave part of my Kingdom to starve on my orders while other parts thrive.”

“They might not like to hear that, Your Grace,” Petyr commented.

“I don’t like any part of this!” Robert retorted. “But I have seven Kingdoms to rule! One King and Seven Kingdoms, Littlefinger! And now we have _ two _ dragons in them! Tell them what they need to hear, in order to do what I say!”

Baelish wasn’t smiling, then. He bowed and left the room as Selmy had. 

Robert breathed out as the room quieted. 

Pycelle, wheezing slightly on the far end of the table, finally spoke up. “A fine showing, Your Grace. You command the room well, as always.”

“If only my Grand Maester could command healers for Jon as well as I command a room,” Robert snapped. 

Pycelle shuddered, affronted by his abrasiveness. “Your Grace,” he rasped, “I have done everything I could in the last few days. There is nothing more I could have done in the past hour that Jon Arryn could not do on his own.”

“Find someone who can then,” Robert said, dismissing him at the same time. 

Pycelle stood up unsteadily, bowed while grasping the edge of the table, and hobbled out of the room.

Then, there was only Robert and Varys left in the room.

Robert had always been sure of Varys in the past. He was sure of his sources and whispers from the Kingdoms and subjects abroad, but he couldn’t shake Stannis’ sudden departure. He had forgiven his past transgressions as Master of Whisper for the last Targaryen King, but he couldn’t very well chop all the heads off of everyone who served the King before him. Half his council would be headless. He simply never suspected…

_ No. That way leads to madness: questioning everything and everyone. Enough people do that for me. I must be better than that. _

It was quiet for another moment before Varys spoke. “Is there something you wish to say to me, Your Grace?”

“How certain are you of this plan working?”

“Oh, I’m quite pleased to say that I think it will work out quite favourably. I have it on good authority that Viserys has only cursory experience leading people, and an even shorter temper. If we prick him in the right spots, we can make him dance to any rhythm you please.”

Robert huffed in approval, raising his hand to his chin to further consider the matter.

_ He’s no more than a green boy wanting to play at war… I suppose I was the same all those years ago. _

_ When they took you, Lyanna. _

All he had wanted was a quiet life in the lands he was born in, with Lyanna for a wife. Their sons would be as strong and passionate as he was as a lad, and their daughters would be as beautiful as she. Though, to own the truth, he could not remember her features anymore and his desire, a fantasy, was left murky - a half forgotten dream.

_ This shouldn’t have been how it turned out. You should be alive, Lyanna, but Rhaegar took you, and so much more, with him. _

_ Damn him. Damn this throne. Damn this world. _

Now wasn’t the time to lament, however. Not when there were beasts flying through his lands.

“And what of their dragons?” Robert asked, feeling excitement spark through his muscles and bones. His limbs felt the urge to move, to fight against his enemies.

_ War. Agony. Revenge. Destruction. Fire. Blood. _

He wanted it all: the good and the bad.

“They are still young and delicate, Your Grace. I wouldn’t worry too much about them when larger ones have been taken down before.”

Robert barely acknowledged his answer. All he had to do was wait - prowl in the shadows for his opportunity to strike. Then, he could end that despicable House forever.

With Jon sick though, he would need someone he could trust to help him. And if, Gods forbid, Jon… He is older after all... Well, he would need a new Hand.

“Send a raven to Winterfell,” Robert decided. “The North needs to be ready for the coming storm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Thank you all for the kind feedback and kudos from the last chapter! I'm so glad you are (or most are) enjoying the direction I'm going! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter too, but was delayed a little because I didn't pray to the water gods enough. We have had two - TWO - leaks within the last month. I just... can't... anymore with this place...
> 
> Anyways, I hope you're continuing to enjoy the ride! Let me know how you feel about it and if the pace is okay. This is the first story I've ever written, so I'm glad for any feedback. I'm also happy to answer your questions if you have any! 
> 
> I also just want to re-emphasize that August is going to be busy for me, so the earliest I should be able to publish the next chapter will be, maybe, near the end of August? I'm not too sure. :/ Sorry.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy!


	24. Chapter 22: Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell's back up in this bitch.

**Catelyn**

She walked beneath the primordial canopy towards where she knew her husband would be. Catelyn had never liked these woods. The trees here were ancient and huge. Thick trunks grew into their neighbours and roots sprang up from the ground, replacing the soil on the beaten path she took. The woods surrounding Riverrun were sparse and airy. She could remember the sharp smell of flowers and grasses on the breeze as she played with her sister as a child. But in these woods, there was a dank, mossy scent, and a darkness which not even the brightest rays of sunlight could penetrate through. The Old Gods, the Gods without names, haunted these woods. These were who her husband came to pray to.

The morning had been quite peaceful, if not a little somber. Catelyn had tried her best to wait patiently as her handmaids groomed her hair and dressed her. She wanted to be in the courtyard to watch Bran as he advanced with his lessons.

Jory had said that Bran could begin to use a heavier sword this day, and Catelyn wanted to be there to watch and support him. She was sure he would get discouraged if Robb dealt him any blows, and knew her presence would be enough to at least strongly discourage this behaviour.

Robb had been less talkative as of late. Catelyn knew precisely why, though she never voiced her thoughts. His learning was rote and swordsmanship had become erratic. One moment he would half-heartedly swing his sword, and the next moment, as if caught in some life or death situation, he would lash out at whoever was opposite him like a man possessed. It frightened her to see this change in him. Arya was just as bad, though it would not have been immediately obvious to any looking from the outside. She had initially been rather dramatic, with her fits of anger and melancholy coming and going like the tide. She had more recently begun a bout of rebelliousness unlike what she had done before. Never had she seen Arya so quiet while needleworking, so focused on the task at hand. But after her work was done, and she was excused by the Septa, she would disappear for hours only to appear on time for dinner.

It was something Catelyn could never quite punish her for. Arya always had an excuse for where she was, something that could have been as true as it could be false. It would be her room or the library or with the horses or in the crypts or on the walls or one of the various thousands of other places to get lost in Winterfell. 

The only ones not completely affected by the change in this past year had been Rickon, as he was just a babe, Sansa, though even she had been melancholic at first, and the Greyjoy boy. Catelyn thought that he was even more pleased than she was from the change.

There was, of course, one person who hid his moroseness well. It was only from knowing him for all these years, that she knew better. She could not dwell on this without becoming bitter, though. She set those thoughts aside as she sought him out, letter in hand. 

Catelyn slowed her pace as the trees opened up around the pond. In the small clearing beneath the weirwood sat her husband as he sharpened and polished his sword, Ice. It was a valyrian steel sword that dated back thousands of years and witnessed hundreds of generations of Starks. The steel rippled and glistened as Ned drove the stone down the length of the blade, a clean, grinding sound emerging with each stroke. She would often find her husband here when he wanted to be alone, to think, to pray. He came here more often than not whenever he disappeared from the castle for any length of time. Catelyn could imagine the quiet of the wood and the repetitive actions were calming to him, the same way braiding Sansa's hair or practicing her needlework was for her. She could hear him mumbling, perhaps in prayer.

"Ned," she spoke softly, not wanting too terribly to interrupt the serene setting she stepped into. 

He looked up, surprise written on his face. The years they had spent together had etched his features perfectly into her mind. His long face with long, brown hair framing it, held soft, grey eyes looking wistfully up at her. Grey hairs began to sprout from his temple, making him look older than thirty-five years. Though, she could not have said if he had any the year before. Although he had never been as handsome as his older brother, his heart and warmth more than made up for it. The past years they had been married were blissful and bountiful, with a few exceptions here and there.

“You’ve found me, my Lady,” Ned grinned as he placed Ice away, his eyes downcast and smile fading just as quickly as he made it appear. “Where are the children?”

He would always ask her that. “Bran is in his room with Robb looking after him. He is not feeling well after seeing his first execution.”

Ned frowned. “He must face his fears. He will not be young forever and he may someday need to sentence a man, himself. And winter is coming.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Hearing the Stark words sent a shiver down her spine as she reflected on just how different, cold, Northerners were. 

“The man died well, I’ll give him that,” Ned reflected as Catelyn gently lay her cloak on the forest floor to sit beside her husband. “Bran did as well as I could hope for. Though I saw he looked away.”

“I’m still proud of him,” Catelyn defended. “I’m always proud of him.”

Ned nodded his head, though she was not sure if it was in understanding or in agreement. 

“He was the sixth this year,” Ned said grimly. “The poor man was half-mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him.” He sighed. “Ben writes that the strength of the Night’s Watch is down below a thousand. It’s not only desertions. They are losing men on rangings as well.”

“Is it the wildings?” she asked.

“Who else?” Ned looked at his hands, at the calluses on his palms. “And it will only grow worse. The day may come when I will have to call the banners and ride north to deal with this King-beyond-the-Wall for once and all.”

Catelyn grew pale at his words. “Beyond the Wall?” The thought made her shudder.

Ned saw the dread on her face. “Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear.”

“There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced at the Heart Tree behind her, the pale bark and red eyes watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts. “There are darker things already here.”

Ned smiled gently at her. “You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the Children of the Forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all. No living man has ever seen one.”

“Until these past few months, no living man had seen a dragon. Now there are several stories of one in the Riverlands,” Catelyn reminded him. “And of the beggar king beyond the sea...”

The faint smile which illuminated his face was extinguished with her words. His eyes turned hard as stone. “I should know better than to argue with a Tully,” he sighed, his brow creasing as if in pain. “You did not come here to tell me children’s tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my Lady?”

Catelyn took her husband’s hand. “There is grievous news today, my Lord. I did not want to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself.” There was no way to soften the blow so she told him straight. “I am so sorry, my love. Jon Arryn is dead.”

“Jon… Is this news certain?”

“It was the King’s seal, and the letter was written in Robert’s own hand. He said Lord Arryn was slow to succumb, but there was nothing they could do. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless. He was brought milk of the poppy, so Jon’s waking moments were not spent in pain.”

“That’s some small mercy, I suppose,” he said. She could see the grief in his face, but even now he still thought of her first. “Your sister? And Jon’s boy? Any word of them?”

“The message only said they were well and that they’ve returned to the Eyrie,” Catelyn said. “I thought she would have gone to Riverrun at the least, but I suppose with what’s happening in those lands…” she trailed off. “The Eyrie is high and lonely and it was her husband's place, not hers. Jon will haunt each stone.” she paused, looked across the still pond, and sighed deeply. Catelyn could remember all the times she and her sister had played and ran around Riverrun as children and the games they would play with Petyr. “I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her.”

“Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I’d heard.”

Catelyn nodded. “Brynden will do what he can for her and the boy. That is some comfort, but still…”

“You should go to her, then,” Ned urged, his eyes brightening once more. “Bring the children and fill the halls of the Eyrie with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy needs other children around him and Lysa should not be alone in her grief.”

“Would that I could,” Catelyn sighed. “The letter brought other tidings. King Robert asks the Lord of Winterfell to ready the North for war. I’m afraid that travel for pleasure will have to wait.”

Ned took a moment to reflect on her words. “He truly means it, then?” he asked rhetorically. “Over the gossip of smallfolk?”

“I’m sure the King is privy to knowledge we do not have. It can sometimes take months for news to arrive here if the rest of the realm is not inclined to share.”

“But who could have done such a thing? The prince and princess are across the Narrow Sea, the last I heard. Unless…” he paused suddenly. His features became increasingly tense the longer his mind stayed on the thought.

“Unless?” she queried.

“It is nothing, Cat.” His face quickly became placid, yet his eyes seemed far away.

“Whoever it is, threatens Robert’s rule more than the Targaryens across the sea. I grew up with the stories and prophecies as a girl in the Riverlands, Ned. Petty Lords take it seriously when a kingship is at stake, and the smallfolk adore Kings who are said to walk amongst them. Whoever hatched the egg and set fire to Harrnehal is someone we should not think passively on.”

Ned shook his head. “I would need to see this dragon for myself to believe it. Harrenhal has burnt in the past, and no dragon flew into existence from its ashes.” He gathered Ice into his hand and stood up, holding his other arm out to help Catelyn stand. “In any matter, I should send Ravens out to the other Lords, informing them of our King’s request.” They began to walk slowly out of the Godswood, arms linked. “It will take time to gather an army together, let alone march south at a moment’s notice.”

“Ned,” Catelyn breathed, her voice trembling a little. “If it comes to it, keep Bran here, please. He is too young.”

Ned’s mouth straightened into a grimace. “I will keep Bran here, but Robb will attend us.”

“Not in battle,” she pleaded.

“Not in battle,” Ned agreed. “He is nearly a man now, and will need to learn the difference between fighting in the yard and war.”

“Let us hope it does not come to war, then.”

Ned remained silent, the worry and strain from his thoughts earlier etched on his face. She gripped his hand in reassurance, but Catelyn knew it was fraught.

Her husband had a million things to consider, but seldom did they ever surface to engulf him so.

_ Perhaps I should entice him to my chambers this evening, to ease his mind. _

They may have been older from when they first married, but the time had only made their love sweeter.

  
  
  


**Ned**

An old dream came to him that night as he slept beside his wife. He lay awake that evening while she slipped off into sleep, her back exposed to warm air from the hot springs. His thoughts harangued him with all the information Winterfell had heard about the Riverlands: fires, smallfolk disappearing from their villages, and dragons all seemed eerie. It didn’t register as something real. It was too far away and out of sight. It was like hearing of the disappearances beyond the Wall: it was nothing for them to worry about - to think on. 

Until he pieced the information together.

_ It couldn’t be. It's a coincidence. _

He had only fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning when his eyes could no longer stay open and his mind had exhausted itself.

_ Promise me, Ned. _

Lyanna was there before him, her face as clear in his memory as it had been that day. Her complexion was pale and tears streaked her face. She was so cold despite the pile of blankets and the dry heat of the sun. Her hands shook as she reached out to him. Rose petals spilled from her hands, dead and black.

_ Promise me _, she whispered in his ear.

He jolted up, a sheen of sweat covered his body as he tried to gather his bearings. Her voice had sounded so real, so close, like she was still here. It was so loud and clear. His dreams had never been this vivid before.

_ I tried. I tried, Lyanna. _

He got out of bed, doing his best to not disturb Cat, and splashed water on his face from her basin. He bent over as he gripped the edges of her desk, looking down at his reflection. 

_ What am I going to do? _

The question kept nagging at him. The more he thought about it, the more his forehead began to crease. He grimaced, not liking the older, tired face he saw. Ned decided it was past time to get dressed and ready the castle. Arrangements needed to be made if the North was to march south. 

_ Catelyn will take the reins with Robb and I gone, _ he consoled himself. He read the letter Robert sent several times yesterday trying to make sense of the words. He rode to war as a young man with Robert, neither had fully understood what war was like then and experience had left Ned bitter. The second time they had rode to war was nine years ago when the squid, Balon Greyjoy, had risen in rebellion. Both times Robert had been forgiving of those who warred against him. He allowed some Kingsguard to keep their station, and opposing Lords to keep their lands and titles, for Balon to live, and for Ned to take Theon as a hostage. But when it came to Targaryens…

_ It’s little wonder he’s calling the realms to war. I should have known with all the talk of dragons that he would do such a thing. But I had hoped… Hoped he had softened with time. _

There had been too much on his mind over the past year to indulge himself with what was happening in the south. Tidings of war with the wildlings and dealing with his family in Winterfell left little time to wonder after others.

Robb had been buzzing the other evening when Ned told him he may need to ride to war. He had been happier than Ned had seen him in a long time. Robb had asked a thousand and more questions about it: what he’d be doing, where they were going, would Theon come? Ned found his child-like enthusiasm infectious and soon he was smiling too. He even allowed Cat to lead him to her bed. 

Morning brought clarity, however.

He had ordered the messages to be sent first thing and was sure he would receive a response from most of his sworn houses within the following days. He was worried about a few. They were known to stall and give him difficulties. If it came to it, he could leave them behind, tell them to do something else, and deal with them when the war was over.

_ If it ever begins in the first place. _

He had his hopes, but knew better than to count on them.

Ned was walking through the courtyard, the sky was light and clear and the sun had just begun to peak over the outer walls of Winterfell. The morning frost still clung to the ground and wooden beams, but had begun to steam on the rooftops of the higher parts of the castle.

_ What if my worst fears are true? What if what waits for us on the other side of the field is… _

He couldn’t finish the thought. The notion alone caused him to halt in his tracks. 

“M’lord?” Maester Luwin called from across the yard. “Are you well?” He peered at his face, anxiety and caution filling his eyes. 

Ned let out a breath he’d been holding. “Yes. Yes, I’m well, Luwin.” he tried to relax his features and loosen his shoulders, but he found them knotted into place. “Were you able to send the ravens out?”

“Yes, yes. The rookery is quite empty now. I haven’t seen it like that for some time,” he smiled, trying to ease whatever tension there was.

He nodded. Luwin’s smile faded as Ned walked past him, eager to find something to take his mind off things.

His eyes were tired and shoulders sore from not sleeping well, lasting him through the next few sennights. Preparations had to be made for supplies and equipment, but at every turn, there were obstacles to overcome and minds to persuade. Winter was coming, and everyone knew it would be long and harsh. Making more provisions for a potential war on top of that was proving to be a nearly insurmountable task. 

“Is this about them wildlings, m’lord?” 

“There’s hardly any time to grow this season, m’lord. Where is this food to come from?”

“Did you want our efforts to stop on the broken tower, then, m’lord?”

He was asked, countless times, questions which he had little patience to answer. This had never bothered him before, why was it so different, now?

Of course, he knew why.

He had sent several ravens to Kinslanding, hoping for more information. Anything to know what was happening in the south. Information was scarce. Viserys had made landfall. They were needed at the Neck in a moon's turn. Was it to be Viserys and his foreign army they were to fight? Ned felt the tension in his shoulders ease as he thought on it. This made the most sense. Of course, Robert would only call the North down for something as serious as this.

Robb found him on the eve before they rode from Winterfell in front of the Heart Tree, praying for his men’s lives, and that he might come back to see these walls again.

“Father?” he asked in a hushed voice, barely audible above the leaves and dirt crunching under his feet.

“Come,” Ned answered. He fixed his eyes on the roots of the Heart Tree, twisting and twirling through the dirt like braided hair.

Robb walked up beside him and knelt down, bowing his head in prayer before the Tree’s red, weeping eyes. After a moment, he redirected his gaze back towards Ned.

“When will we know?” Robb asked, trying to suppress the eagerness in his voice.

Ned sighed. “Not for some time. Even if we get a raven from the King tomorrow, we will not be going into battle until the rest of the North is ready. It could take a moon or more to just reach the Neck.” The plans were for those north of the Starks, to come to Winterfell before joining with the rest of the north in the Barrowlands near the Kingsroad. As he expected, Lady Dustin was not forthcoming with aid. There was no doubt she would keep the main bulk of her retinue in Barrowton and watch as the rest of the North gathered outside her castle. Ned decided to overlook this, as he knew well her grievances. He had thought it would be different as the order came from the King, but he supposed any written order with the Stark seal might prickle her.

Robb nodded his head solemnly, though Ned could spot the strain in his lips as he tried to keep a calm demeanor.

“Do not be so eager to go to war, son,” he said gravely. “We may not see it, besides. We could get there too late.”

“But if we do,” Robb fought back, “It will be my first time in the retinue. It will be the first time the North will see me as a man, not just a boy playing with sticks in the yard. I should be beside you.”

Ned finally cast his gaze upon him. His auburn hair was tousled around his face and his blue eyes peered at him with a determination he had not seen before in his son.

“There are many other ways for you to be well regarded by the North,” he countered.

“If I go and I do not fight, the Lords will never respect me.”

“There is more to war than fighting,” Ned said sternly, turning back to face the Heart Tree. He searched the weeping face, trying to find some clue to convince his son otherwise.

“Father,” he pleaded. “What was all the training for if not to fight for the North? For Westeros?”

Ned closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I was like you when I was your age. I had an eagerness to fight. Brandon had it worse. There was a hunger in him. Robert, the King, was the same. We had dreams of winning great victories or dying in glory. I suppose all young men share the same fantasies. I remember you and Jon playing in the fields outside Winterfell.” Robb chewed his lip before nodding his head, yes. “Brandon, Benjen, and I did the same.”

“Is that bad?”

“Dreaming and fighting are easy. Leading will be the most challenging thing in your life.: Ned sought Robb’s eyes. He needed to know he had his full attention. “When Brandon died, his cup was passed to me, and I wasn’t ready to drink from it. If you are going to be the Lord of Winterfell someday, you must learn how to do so from behind the battlefield. Maester Luwin has told me great things about your learning in tactics. I would rather have you planning our next move than charging in from the front. Let the victories you planned be what the Northern Lords respect you for, not the blood you’ve drawn.”

Robb’s eyes lit up as though he had just seen the sun for the first time. “You would let me plan?” he asked eagerly.

“I would let you help,” Ned corrected. “I would let the North know that they are in good hands.”

This seemed to satisfy Robb. He faced forward, biting back a smile. Composing himself, he turned to face Ned again, his face blank. “Thank you, father. I won’t let you down.” He bowed his head. “I’ll take my leave,” he concluded. He slowly rose up from the ground, dusting himself off before retreating, his pace quickening as he got closer to the gates back to Winterfell.

Ned couldn’t help the smile which spread across his face at this little victory.

Perhaps the Gods were listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooof. It's been a minute, and I have not been able to write as much as I wanted to. We are in the process of moving among other life-changing decisions. I've been a lot more stressed in the past few weeks than when I was in grad school, so... I think that says something about how difficult my degree was :D
> 
> But seriously, I wanted to bring more to the table with this post, but I just could not find it in me. I have other pieces of future chapters written out which I'm excited to share in the future, but finding the time and getting into the "writing mood" has been difficult.
> 
> Anyways, I wanted this chapter to highlight what changes have occurred in the North over the past year and a bit. While a lot remains the same, there are some significant differences here and there. 
> 
> (P.S. Don't freak out about no direwolves yet)


	25. Chapter 23: Jaehaerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jae's gotta get a few things done before things start poppin' off.

“All orders must come from you,” Brynden had told him the night before they revealed themselves to the smallfolk of Green Market. “They must see a king, not some green boy who still relies on adults for help.”

He could see the wisdom in those words. It was difficult, however, to enact it. 

Jae had taken time to speak and show himself to the smallfolk around the Green Fork. He asked them for their aid, with a list of promises in return. Yet, they greeted his campaign and words with an awe he felt was not earned. What was even more worrisome in his mind was the ease with which he did so. It had been difficult, at first, to grasp hands and smile and speak of what they could do, together. The more he spoke the words, though, the more he began to believe it himself. They had a solid plan. He had a dragon, growing with great vigor. What could possibly halt their progress?

Mern had been instrumental in persuading the local villages. He knew, intimately, how the communities worked. It was fascinating to hear him explain it. One village relied solely on fishing as the local petty lord had taken control of the surrounding fields and excised the previous lord’s tenants. They were poor and wanted their lands back. Another community hated their lord for increasing their taxes the previous year. They were paying for the lord’s poor habits, and could no longer afford to have crops fail, as they were doing now. 

On and on it went. It was useful to understand what people wanted. Jae could more easily speak to what they desired to hear - whether it be land or less taxes or for their sons and daughters to have work. He had kept a ledger of what he promised initially, but it had quickly grown out of hand and could no longer be contained within one tome. 

Mern and Brynden had been at odds with each other over a multitude of topics. One thing they could agree on, though, was that Jae was making too many promises.

“Show them your dragon, and they will flock to you like moths to a flame,” Mern had told him.

It didn’t feel “right”, Jae had argued.

“Right. Right is the only thing that is right,” Brynden had quipped cheekily. “Right makes right. Might makes right. But promises… Promises make problems. It is best to not make them at all if you cannot keep them.”

“I will promise to do what I can for them, to make their lives easier in the future,” Jae countered.

“The smallfolk will always have hard lives,  _ Your Grace _ . You cannot raise them all to lordships. There will always need to be those who till the land and make our bread and butter. And there will be those who will send men off to die for ideals and land they might not have heard of before. What promises you make should reflect the power that you have currently. Do you have the power to grant and retract lands?”

“Not ye-”

“So I would advise you not to promise this. Instead, promise them full bellies if they join your cause. That is something you  _ can _ do, at present.”

It had been difficult to know what to do with this information. Should he take back what he said?

“In my experience,” Brynden had sighed. “It is far better to change the promise quietly without mention of what you  _ had _ promised. Most won’t notice, and if they do, you had best replace it with something substantial. Full stomachs now may sound more appealing than fertile lands later.”

Two moons came and went as Jaehearys tried his hand at kingship. It had felt too sudden when Brynden announced everything was in place. Jae merely had to say the words, and they would begin their plans.

He wanted to pull the reins back and stop everything. Were they sure they had enough people? Were they sure they knew what they were doing? Was he even sure what he was doing? Was it sure to even work?

They set up a merchant camp outside the Twins to conceal the hole being dug towards the foundations of the castle. There were not many trees to provide cover, so compromises had to be made. The constantly flowing river also brought benefits and challenges with it. The incessant noise meant that anything they did underground would be disguised by the waters, but with the water so close by, the miners were in constant danger of being entombed and drowned. They had a few men who disappeared in the night, scarred off by the leaks and small cave-ins as the hole crept closer to the base of the Twins. Wagons full of timber were drug in, disguised as lumber for tent poles and workshops. The timber was able to stave off complete disaster, but from what seasoned miners were saying, what little support they had would not last. It did not have to though, for they dug with the intent of collapse.

The wares they sold in the false camp helped keep the flow of bodies fluid between the outside and inside of the castle. It was not unusual for a man or soldier to bring back a woman or for two men, deep in conversation, to accompany each other back inside the castle. It was imperative they knew what the lay of the fortress looked like. How many bodies, and where soldiers patrolled by day and night was also helpful. Ensuring men, and women, with sympathies to their plight, were within the Twins was an added benefit.

All that was left to do was figure out how best to destroy the wall. Mern had spoken to several blacksmiths about fire and heat cracking mortar. All agreed it would need to be a long, hot, dry burn. Not ideal. If it had not been for an off-hand comment from Bernard, repeated by Rolland, they may have been sitting in the camps for much longer.

“What’s the worst a lord has done to you?” a tavern patron asked as the two guards tried to find comfort at the bottom of a tankard one evening. The two had strolled off after Jae had dismissed them for the night.

“I remember as a child when our lord’s son went huntin’ where my uncle kept his pigs. There were three dozen swine dead by the end of the day. It destroyed him. Had to come live with us. I remember them hogs sitting out in the sun for days, growing bigger and bigger until the crows finally found ‘em. One walked all over its swollen belly as the rest surrounded the carcass. It pecked and I swear on my mother’s grave it was the biggest blast I had ever seen in my life. I stood a fair ways back, mind you, and I still got covered head to foot in blood and guts. My mother was not pleased by the smell.”

It had stuck with Rolland into the next day before he finally brought up the idea.

“You want to explode a hundred bloated corpses under the wall?” Mern asked with a straight face.

“It would only take a few days with the heat we’re having.”

Bryden’s grin was wide, his eyes half-crazed. “An explosion without wildfire. We might need more than a hundred corpses for that. However...” he mused. Jae could see his mind working faster than it had in the last several days. “Pig fat burns hot. Hotter than wood…” 

They planned to gather close to fifty pigs and slaughter them before the siege. It was a gamble they hoped would pay off, since that was the main bulk of what Mundoros would eat.

She had been growing exponentially from the food the smallfolk sacrificed to her. Jaehearys remembered how quickly the hounds in Winterfell had grown. Dragons were on a much different scale. It was her girth that had ultimately set their plans in motion. No longer able to fit comfortably with other livestock by day, a larger structure would be needed to keep them safe.

Jaehaerys, Brynden, Mern, Rolland, Bernard, and a host of smallfolk had gathered several miles from the Twins, ready to strike in the early morning in four days. They couldn’t risk being with the false merchant camp, for fear of being found. They were close enough that information could easily trail between the two camps during the day, however. It was only now that they had reached the base of the Twins, that the excitement in both camps was palpable. They would be bringing the pigs in, in two nights' time and packing up the camp at the Twins. The fourth morning would be when the fighting took place.

Jae had been sleeping less the closer that day got, and he found his meals turned rancid in his mouth. A pit had grown in his stomach the more he thought about what they had to do. He  _ had _ to do this. This was the right thing to do. Right?

These questions plagued his thoughts as soon as he lay down to rest. When he did sleep, he dreamt of hunting in the skies, watching with keen eyes as flocks of animals ran beneath him. The chase and capture and kill always made the blood hotter, the meat more tender, as he devoured his prey. It was simple, blissful, to forget himself and his troubles. 

He awoke this morning to an aching stomach and a salivating mouth.

Jae blinked, trying to separate what was his mind and what was the dragon’s. Had he killed that deer? No. It had to have been Mundoros. He reached up to his face, wiping the drool away from the corner of his mouth. He had hands, not wings. 

He had responsibilities. 

Jae stretched as he stood out of bed, feeling the muscles in his arms, legs, and back scream at him as he did so. He had been training intensely the last fortnight with Rolland, though it felt more like taking a beating from him every day. They would practice in an open field near where they would camp while smallfolk would gather around them to watch. Rolland would always allow him to win a few matches for show, but the hits Jae took to get him to yield were almost not worth the effort. 

Jae had made it a habit to instruct the young boys in the audience about how to hold a sword when he was too sore to continue. It reminded him of watching and helping Bran learn his stances, making him long for Winterfell. It did no good to look back, so he did not allow himself to be remorseful for too long.

There were orders he had to give today, and people he must speak to. A strong, calm demeanor was what he had to wear. 

He changed his underclothes and wore something simple, drab, over it. He was about to leave before turning to place a cap over his head for good measure. Brynden had learned that the Throne knew of his peculiar hair colouring. 

“Your Grace,” Rolland murmured as he exited his tent. He sat on a wood log picking at the dirt under his fingernails. 

Jae noted giant clouds were slowly rolling towards them. He felt weary of the sight as a gentle wind brought them closer.

“Has anyone come by this morning?”

Rolland gave a yawn, before standing up to speak. “The owl gave me grief but then flapped away before I could cook it into a stew.”

“I’ll speak to Brynden, then,” Jae hummed as the pair strolled through the small encampment. As Jae passed by, men and women would halt what they were doing to stand and curtsy or bow their heads. It made him feel bad about interrupting their morning, yet he nodded back at them smiling.

He had been receiving conflicting views about how to interact with those who followed him. Mern had been urging Jae to speak with them more, and know them by name, while Brynden had an opposing view.

“It is very well if you smile and kiss their babes, but to know them by name will make you waver in the coming battles. It does no good when a commander hesitates because they are afraid some child in some muddy hole won’t have a father by the afternoon. Lords are the men you want to know by heart, not smallfolk.”

It was harsh, but he could understand his reasoning. He would let Mern know them well, placing distance between himself and these people. He couldn’t disappoint the young boys who asked for help with the sword, however. That was something he would continue to do, despite Brynden’s advice.

He entered Brynden’s tent near the edge of the encampment, while Rolland stood outside. There was a straw bed by the side of the canvas with a table and chair in the center. Archimeadys was perched on the back of the chair, facing the back of the tent where Brynden sat. He was dressed for the day but had yet to place a cap, let alone his helmet, on. His concave forehead was something Jae was never used to seeing. He always thought it was a trick of light and shadow deceiving his eyes, before reassuring himself that what he saw was, in fact, true.

“Finally woken up, have you?” Brynden commented. He sat on his straw bed eating a piece of bread with some meat on it. “My feathered friend has been telling me your dragon has been hunting rather close to the Twins. I thought you said you would keep her away.”

Archimeadys swivelled his head to stare at Jae, his black, round eyes boring into him, seeing everything. 

“I…” he began. He didn’t know she was being watched but should have known better. It was folly to lie to Brynden Rivers. “It’s difficult when I’m sleeping. I’m not in control of the decisions being made.”

“Be that as it may, if you cannot command her at a moment’s notice, then perhaps you are not ready to use her at all.”

They had had this discussion multiple times over the past few moons. It was difficult to skinchange with a dragon, not even Brynden had done it before. They were planning on tactfully using her during the siege, but the closer the day got, the more nerve-wracking the idea made him.

“It will be fine. I’ll be awake. I’ve never had problems while I’ve been awake.” He was trying to convince himself more than Brynden.

Archimeadys shuffled his feathers and turned to look back at Brynden. Jae thought that he might have made a snide remark.

_ What did you say? _ Jae tried to reach for Archimeadys’ mind. 

The owl swivelled his head to stare at him again with those hollow eyes.  _ Boy funny. Boy has problems.  _ He gave a low hoot and was silent.

“You’ve lost more words,” Jae said sadly. He had been ready to retort back, but felt little need to, now. 

_ I’m still me. I’m still- FOOD! _ The feathers on his body puffed as his eyes narrowed in on some poor creature behind Jae.

Jae turned slowly to find what Archimeadys had spotted. Sure enough, there was a small mouse scurrying near the foot of the tent trying to find shelter.

_ MINE! _ Archimeadys snarled as he flitted towards the mouse. His talons stretched forward as he caught his meal, squeezing the life from the tiny creature. He rotated on the ground happily with his catch, lifting his legs high in the air, walking like he was stuck in mud.

“If you’re going to eat that,” Brynden said rather annoyed, “then do it outside. I’m not about to have you ruin my breakfast.”

Archimeadys hooted in annoyance but flew out of the tent. 

“He becomes more and more an owl every day. It’s happening a lot quicker than it had before,” Brynden noted, sighing. He placed the crust of his break-fast down, no longer interested in his meal. “I suppose it’s a blessing he’s been conscious for so long.”

“How long has it been?”

“Five years.”

“Is that usual?”

“No. Not at all. I’ve found humans lose themselves within the first few months… There was something different about him, though. Perhaps his will was more powerful than the bird’s.”

A contemplative silence fell between them. A few droplets began to tap gently on the canvas and Jae noticed it had become several degrees darker than just a few moments ago.

Jae stepped towards Brynden. “Is this all you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Yes and no. I wanted to speak about the placement and movement of men inside the castles, but I also think your connection with Mundoros warrants further discussion.”

Jae turned to find the chair, sighing as he sat down. “Should you be speaking to me then, or to the persons inside the castle walls?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“I can do nothing for them once the wall falls.”

“Which is why you must have others drill the procedure into their heads.”

“And I have been doing that,” Jae said, his voice straining to keep a civil tone.

“Are you quite certain? I have seen you playing with boys in the field, but I have not seen you command men. The men are more important than boys.”

“I have Mern giving orders from me. We both think he’s the best messenger for the smallfolk, as he’ll be inside the walls that morning as well.”

“He’s…” Brynden muttered something indecipherable.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. As long as you think he’s the best man for the job, then I won’t force the issue.”

“ _ Is _ there an issue?” 

“Only if we fail in four days' time.”

“And will we?”

Brynden held his tongue.

“You know perfectly well how this ends, and yet won’t say anything?”

“That’s right.”

Jae was almost at his wit’s end. “What is the point of sorcery and magic if you won’t even use it?” 

_ What is the point of all this when you know what hides behind every door? _ He left this unsaid.

“Sorcery is like a sword without a hilt,  _ Your Grace _ ,” Brynden inflected. “We have spoken of this before. There is no safe way to grasp it.”

The rain began to pour down in earnest. It sounded as though cords were tumbling upon the tent.

“Are we done, then?” Jae asked. He always felt a boy in Brynden’s presence. Never a man, let alone a king. He nearly despised his discussions with the man, since he always felt so small afterward.

“Just one more thing,” Brynden said gruffly. “You need to write letters to Lords Tyrell and Stark.”

“I thought we’ve been over this as well,” Jae protested. He didn’t want to whine, but it was becoming more difficult not to.

“We have and your excuses have been found wanting. Write the letters. In four days you will need all the help you can get.” 

There was no arguing with Brynden.

“I thought I was in charge,” Jae said contemptuously, hating himself for sounding so like a child.

“You are. And you will do what I say until you have no need to tell me that you are in charge.” He picked up the remainder of his break-fast and ate it, ignoring Jae as he fumed silently.

He ruefully understood his point, however. 

“I’ll be checking on Mundoros and her guards, then.” Jaehearys was eager to be out of the tent, despite the rain which still poured down outside.

“And you’ll write those letters?”

Jae nodded, not wanting to verbally acknowledge the power disparity. 

“Then go.”

Jae snorted as he left the tent on Brynden’s leave, wondering briefly if it was the same for all kings. Did they truly have unfathomable power? Does Robert deal with a heavy hand? Or were there always limits?

These thoughts sent him thinking of Aerys. Jae’s connection to him sent a chill down his spine.

_ Of course, there are limits, or else you’ll have a rebellion on your plate. _

The rain, pouring as he took his first few steps out of the tent, began to spatter to a stop as he and Rolland walked back through the now muddy path. Jae looked across the rolling, green hills to the Twins, a grey speck in the distance. If he was there on any other terms, he might have thought the scene beautiful. The low lying rain cloud had passed swiftly through, and blue skies appeared above their heads. Sunlight was streaming down in patches on the scenery in the distance with the mists slowly lifting from the heat. There was a moment of peace as the world lay still and the only thing that moved were the clouds above. 

It came alive again in a heartbeat, and he could hear the sounds of people behind canvas, bugs chittering, and birds singing to each other. Another angry storm cloud followed behind the one that had just left, and he knew he would not have this moment of tranquility for long.

Smallfolk were beginning to come out of their tents again and they began their day of training, crafting, and bargaining. 

Jae nodded and smiled as he passed back through, reserving a slightly larger grin for a group of five women coming back from a nearby copse of trees. They were soaked from head to foot, and it was clear they were having trouble walking back from the weight of their clothes. He spotted Jenny arm-in-arm with another woman who was clearly pregnant, the two deep in conversation. The pregnant lady had a ruddy complexion and the kerchief in her hair had sagged down to her neck exposing thick, dark brown hair. Jenny kept her hair hidden under a yellow kerchief, drenched and dripping with water. Her brown, woolen kirtle was dark and dripping with water as well. Spotting him, the pregnant woman smiled and turned to whisper something in Jenny’s ear, making her blush.

“Good morning,” he said, noting how Jenny couldn’t seem to look at him.

“Good morning,” they replied back with a curtsy. 

“Might I know where You are off to?” The pregnant woman inquired, her grin still on her face.

“Important duties, I’m sure,” Rolland interjected. 

Jae grimaced at the lady as an apology before turning to Jenny. “Thank you, Jenny,” he managed to say. He had been meaning to speak to her over the last couple of days but had been too preoccupied to verbalize his thoughts when she was around. “For everything you’ve done. We wouldn’t be where we are without your help,” he said sincerely.

Jenny blushed a deeper shade of red. “Oh, I had help from so many. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I accepted that compliment.”

“Well, it was your idea. Without it, we wouldn’t have had so much help.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” she curtsied again. The woman beside her had not stopped grinning since their interaction. It seemed she would not stop grinning for quite some time. “If there is anything more you would have me do, I would be more than happy to oblige.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Jae complimented.

As they made their separate ways, Jae could have sworn he heard Jenny warning her companion that her face might stay like that if she didn’t take care.

He was smiling for their trek through the fields and woods of the Riverlands. They found their horses near the forest of the next village over and took off from there. It would take a good part of the morning to find where he had told Mundoros to stay. His current disposition had him thinking of other things, however, while he tried his best to follow behind Rolland’s breakneck speed.

_ I shouldn’t be so preoccupied with these thoughts when I have so many other important things to consider. _

Soon enough, he met with his group of watchmen he had assigned to Mundoros. They were hunters and trappers who needed little persuasion to spend their time watching and tracking a creature not seen in many generations. Jae had musings of calling them the Dragon’s Watch, but had thought better of it. He did not want any future men thinking this job was in any way similar to what the Nights’ Watch entails.

_ I suppose I could call them dragonkeepers, but these men are barely the stature of the dragonkeepers of old. _

They tied their horses up near a small creek that their horses could drink from while they made their way to the base.

One man was in the camp while the others were dispersed. He was hunched over, carving slots into sticks. Jaehaerys had made it a point to get Mundoros used to these men. She had been quite apprehensive at first, having only truly met Brynden, Rolland, and Bernard before. But the larger she grew, the fewer fears she seemed to have. It had got to the point where Jae had to actively ensure she did not think of them as food while he wasn’t around.

The trapper looked up, and without a word, nodded his head in the direction of Mundoros, and went back to fletching his arrows.

He knew what Brynden would say about this behaviour, but Jae was a little relieved that there were still people who didn’t fall on their knees whenever he approached. He didn’t begrudge these men, who lived in the woods all their lives, of not treating him as courtly lords might.

Another rain cloud had moved in, bringing a slight chill with it. Raindrops began to speckle their heads as they tapped their way down through the leaves. While Jae had wished he’d brought a thicker shirt, this was the perfect weather for Mundoros to play.

He saw her before he heard her. The rain was coming down frantically now, and it obscured the thrashing of water and huffs and pants of a dragon. 

She waded along the banks, a glistening green gem even in a storm. Undeterred by the rain, she crept to a halt as she spotted movement beneath the water’s roiling surface. She was so determined that she did not acknowledge that Jaehearys had walked up behind her.

He kept to himself, however, wanting nothing more than for Mundoros to catch her fish.

Her shoulders came up to his now, and he could see her muscles move carefully beneath her thick hide of scales.

The hunters had told him that her wings had made her movement sluggish through the water and that she really wasn’t meant for swimming. Jae insisted that she learn to hunt in water, nevertheless. There would be times when they would not be able to rely on livestock for food. It was better that she adjust now, rather than later. And, seeing as how they meant to slaughter several dozen pigs in the coming days, now was the best time. 

She pounced, creating a huge tide on both shores. 

And scared away any meal she wished to have.

Frustrated, she crouched on her back legs and took off into the sky, letting out a roar of displeasure, and disappeared into the low-lying clouds. 

“Is she always like this?” Jae yelled through the rain, asking anyone within hearing distance. She was usually even-tempered whenever he was with her mind, but there could have been many reasons to account for that.

“More or less,” was the reply from behind.

She swooped back down and glided over the surface of the water like a shroud of death, though her wings barely spread over half the width of the river. Seeing movement, she struck her maw down, snatching a carp between her teeth. She then shot up back towards the clouds, disappearing again.

It was only after a few moments that the group saw the fish flailing down with the rain, a burst of flame chasing after it. Just as Jae thought the charred fish would hit the water, Mundoros swooped down, eating it whole. A smile played on his lips as he watched the sight. Never had he seen a fish fly, nor a dragon roast a fish in the air before. 

Jae was beginning to get drench from the rain and he walked back towards the tree canopy to take shelter and speak more easily with his watchmen.

“She loves to play with her food,” the same person called behind him. 

_ She plays because she’s bored,  _ he knew. 

His name was Dennet and he wore a thick, red, wool cap, hiding the balding spot on his head. They had found him tracking Mundoros’ movements for a petty lord who promised him more gold than he had ever seen. Jaehearys offered to give him a lifetime's worth of tracking and watching a dragon in addition to the gold. He decided the kill was never as good as the hunt itself.

Dennet had become something of a leader among the men here, having naturally fallen into the role. Though Jae had never officiated anything of the sort, it was better to have one man he could speak to, to trust his orders would be enacted.

“Has anyone seen her? When she does this?” Jae asked.

“Aye, a few have, but they won’t be speaking to no one.”

Jae let the comment rest, not wanting to know more. 

Mundoros sauntered up to Jaehaerys, having finally been satisfied with her hunt. The watchers, surrounding them, took a few steps back as she approached, but he and Rolland stayed in place. 

“Finally full?” Jae asked as he reached out to scratch her jaw. As soon as his fingertips graced her scales, his senses turned.

_ The rain was much louder and the world burst with the heat and sounds of life. There were squirrels nestled in the tree behind them and a bird’s nest within a hole next to them. Bugs zoomed through the air, avoiding the droplets as they tried to find cover while the fish began to creep out from the depths. Humans stood before her, stinking with several days worth of work and sweat and dirt. All was warm despite the rain. _

He released his touch. 

Jae let out an unsteady breath as he stepped back. 

The dragon looked at him quizzically with her bronze eyes. Although she did not think in words, he could understand the current of her feelings. 

_ Why had he pulled back?  _

_ She liked it when he scratched her there. _

There was something else there too - when he laid hands on her. Something more primal which flowed between the two…

“Did you come with new orders?” Dennet asked, tearing Jae from his thoughts.

“ _ Your Grace _ ,” Rolland corrected, eyes narrowed.

Dennet made some gargled sound of annoyance.

“Four days,” Jae muttered. “We move in four days. I will bring Mundoros towards the Twins and you and the others are to ensure she makes it there safely. Afterward, I want you to stay alert to any activity to the north. We can only win this battle if we are not surprised from behind.”

He gave a stiff nod. “Any fighting?”

“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary. I would sleep better the next couple nights knowing my rear is safeguarded, than having a few more good shots.”

Dennet gave another stiff nod.

“I won’t be able to come back before then, so any urgent information must come to me. I am leaving my most prized possession with you, and I promise you all will be well rewarded when we have won.”

“When,” he agreed gruffly.

“One more thing. Make sure she stays further back from the Twins for now. I know it’s difficult to control her, but try luring her back more  _ before _ she reaches this river. A… friend of sorts, spotted her and I’d rather not have too many tales reach Lord Frey’s ears for now.”

It was only then that Jae realized the sheer amount of eyes that were on Mundoros. He had his watchmen when he could not skinchange with her. And then there was Brynden and Archimeadys spying on her and watching his watchmen…

The thought made his lips twitch upwards into a grin.

Dennet grimaced. “She likes to hunt. Laying carcasses out for her doesn’t seem to interest her, but…” he trailed off. “We could try rope and pull it along…”

“Whatever you think is best.”

The rain let up on their way back and the sun was beginning to set by the time the two had made it back to the camp. They made eye contact with the men guarding the wagons in the forest as they made their way through the trees. The wagons in the camp at the Twins held wares that were only relevant to what smallfolk and merchants were expected to have. These ones in the forest held tools and items more suspect.

“Again!” Brynden could be heard yelling as Jae and Rolland neared the edge of the forest. It seemed he had personally taken command of training some new archers over the course of the day. “Notch! Draw! Loose!” 

_ Had not Mern been assigned to do this? _

He would have to look into that later.

There was a flurry of feathers and sticks flitting through the air between the trees.

“If you cannot aim!” Brynden cursed the men loudly, “put your effort into your draw! You will hit your friends if you cannot hit your enemy!” Brynden sighed and shook his head. Noticing Jae, he called him over.

“Have you written those letters yet?” he snapped.

“No. I’ve been gone all day.”

“Well, do it now. We cannot rely on smallfolk forever. These men will only take us so far despite how noble the cause or how great their resolve is.” 

“Yes. I said I would do it.”

“Again!” Brynden yelled at the archers. “Forgive me, but it’s been a long day of others’ ineptitude and failings. I had half a mind to just do it myself, but know it’s best those letters are written by your hand.”

“Yes. You’re right,” Jae said monotonously. “And Mern?”

Brynden groaned, looking at the hunched stances the young men had begun to take. “I need to deal with this,” he said pointing to the archers, ignoring his question. He turned back with a sigh. “Write those letters. Disparage my name all you want, but write those letters.” 

Jae thought this was the closest Brynden had ever come to pleading.

Jaehaerys turned, walking away with a heavy chest. He didn’t know what he was feeling, exactly, and thought this was why he had spurned the task.

_ It’s just a matter of course to write a letter to the Tyrells. And my… uncle. It will be like I’m at Winterfell again, asking him for help… _

_ I will write it. I  _ have _ to write it. _

People he passed by were giving their curtsies and “good evenings”, but he was so lost in thought, he barely acknowledged it. He was surprised when his tent appeared before him so quickly.

“Rolland, you’re dismissed for the evening,” he said before entering. “Catch up on some sleep.”

He bowed. “I’ll send for Bernard, then.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Rolland bowed his head before walking away.

Jae huffed as he headed inside his tent. It was much the same as how he left it. A fire pit lay in the centre where the smoke rose up to the opening at the top. However, this also meant that the rain from the day had drizzled down and dampened his coals. 

He had to completely clean out and restart his fire.

Jae put himself to work, clearing out the charcoal and meticulously placing dry kindling into the pit. Grabbing used scraps of paper from his desk, he crumpled them up and threw them into the middle of his structure. 

_ Had Brynden relieved Mern from his task for a good reason? What happened? _ The relations between the two began to gnaw at his mind as he worked at building a fire. He thought that they had gotten along rather well to begin, but recently there was a pall between them. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong or how to fix, or if it was his business.

_ If it begins to affect our well being, it will be my business,  _ he decided.

He struck his flint and watched as the flames engulfed the building he created. It grew terribly fast and he had to rush to bring over larger logs before it completely burned itself out. Jae gingerly laid the two logs in the centre, only to jump back as the flame licked his fingers.

He hissed in pain.

His middle finger was slightly red but wasn’t badly burned. He clenched his fist, trying to absorb the ache.

_ How did I survive that fire? _

When he turned around, he found Jenny had stepped into his tent. Her hair hung loosely around her head and small curls cascaded down her chest. Her mouth was open as if to speak, but she closed it quickly when she saw the confusion on his face. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked carefully. Nervously. He lowered his hand, his throbbing finger almost forgotten.

“I… You… You seemed upset just now, and I came to bring you some tea. It’s what helps me when I’m…” She fell silent, looking down at her hands as they fumbled with the pouch. “I’m sorry, this was silly of me. I shouldn’t be here,” and she turned to go.

“Wait,” Jae called, his voice weary and strained. “I would love a drink.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jenny turned and grinned, blushing as she bowed. She hastily walked towards the fire in the middle of the tent and set about boiling water and stewing the flowers and leaves she had brought. 

Jae got up from the fire opposite her and walked around to his desk. He sat down watching the flames flicker and caress the pot, his troubles brewing with the tea over the fire.

The blank pages on his desk brought back his other worries. 

_ What if I send a raven, and only make things worse? Why would my uncle not despise me after all I’ve done? Did he not go to war to rebel against the Targaryens? Did he not keep me a secret because he didn’t want them to return to power? I was an eyesore to everyone there, was I not? Lady Stark most of all. Did she know? Is that why she hates me so? Or was it the mere thought of a bastard usurping her children's’ birthright that kept her awake at night? _

_ Mine was usurped. Perhaps we will finally have something to talk about if we ever meet again,  _ he mused dryly.

Jae caught sight of red hair and thought, for a mad moment, Catelyn had come to his tent. He looked up, eyes fierce with loathing. Instead, he found Jenny’s two, large brown eyes. 

She paused. She had been trying to bring the tea over to him when he snared her in his sight.

He immediately tried to assume an innocent look, “Th-thank you for the tea.” They both found other things to focus on while she placed the kettle and cup upon his desk by his side. Jae took his cap off and arranged it on the table. He then fiddled with his quill, scribbling random words upon parchment to look busy. He could smell the herbs and flowers of the tea, though. He breathed them in deeply, trying to relax his mind, release the tension in his shoulders.

“Mmmm,” Jenny hummed. “What does this say?” Jae looked up startled, unaware she had been looking over his shoulder. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I… Do you not know how to read?” 

“I can a little. I can write my own name and read the names of the Seven, but we had no books in our village until Mern and his family came, so…”

“Oh,” he said rather dumbly, placing his quill down. It had escaped him that she couldn’t read. He knew many smallfolk could, but if there weren’t any books... 

For all his complaining about Winterfell, at least he learned to read and write and swing a sword. 

“This says ‘Mundoros’,” he said, pointing towards the word he had just written. Looking over what was on the parchment, he discovered it to be a jumble of random words and hoped she didn’t ask more about what was on it.

“Ah. It begins the same as Mother, but then I got a little lost,” she smiled.

“Er, yes,” Jae nodded, not knowing how to appropriately respond.

“Can I try writing my name?” she queried. “I haven’t done so in a while.”

“Go ahead,” he said, pushing his chair back to allow her access to the table.

She bent down and picked up the quill, studying it to inspect the ink in it before dipping it in the pot. She tried to wipe the excess off but still managed to blot the parchment on her way to where she wanted to write. She muttered apologizes before awkwardly jotting down her name.

Jenny was so close to him. When her hair fell from being tucked behind her ear, it graced his fingers on the way down. He could smell lavender and chamomile floating off her skin and hair. He could see with great detail the sunspots and freckles dotted over her skin, and how her lips creased and pouted as she focused on writing.

J-E-N-N-Y. Her writing reminded Jae of Arya’s when she was first learning to write. 

“I’m afraid I’m not very good compared to you,” she sighed.

“I’ve been told practice makes perfect,” he stammered.

“I’ve been told that, too. Perhaps this sort of wisdom cuts across Kings and smallfolk,” she smiled at him before continuing. “Both our names begin with this, right?” she said, pointing towards the J. 

“Yes,” he muttered. Jenny passed the quill over to him expectantly.

J-o, he began. He quickly changed the ‘o’ to and ‘a’ and continued. 

“That’s a lot of letters for one name,” she commented when he was done. 

“This was my name before,” he said as he wrote ‘Jon’ next to ‘Jaehaerys’. “It’s even shorter than yours.”

“But I suppose a King should have a name with many letters. Many letters, many subjects, many swords and horses and castles...”

“Well, I don’t have many of those things.”

“Not yet, but you will.”

“And how do you know this?”

“Because you speak such wisdom, Your Grace. It eventually wears off on others,” she said in jest.

Her face was dangerously close to his, causing him to blush as he felt her breath against his face.

“Hardly,” he stammered, quickly fixing his gaze on something trivial on the table. He pulled papers with unknown content towards himself, tidying and occupying his hands. “I have others who are wise for me. All I did was hatch a dragon.”

“Which is a feat in and of itself. Mundoros is the first dragon to hatch in a very long time. My mother doesn’t even recall the last time dragons were around.”

Jae kept his eyes on the papers before him, working up the courage to say his next words. He steadied his breath but still couldn’t look her in the eye when he spoke. “I… Thank you, Jenny, for everything you’ve done. I don't think we could have come this far without your help. But…”

Jenny’s smile faded. She quickly looked down at her teapot before looking up again at Jae. “But?”

“I don’t think we should be alone together anymore.” The words stung his tongue. Jae didn’t know if it was just his own feelings guiding this conversation, but he hoped it was. It would be easier if she could fade away like a breeze on a hot summer day. 

She pursed her lips. “And why is that?”

“Because I… Because we can’t… I don’t want…” He didn’t know where to start or where to end.

“What don't you want? Maybe you should start there.”

_ I don’t want to father a bastard. _

He couldn’t say those words, though. They were too personal. Too close to the truth of what he felt when she was near.

“I don’t want…”

Jenny moved a chair to sit beside him. Jae looked up. Her lips were so close. Her quick kisses over the last month left him breathless and wanting more. So much more. There had been the first time on Mern’s farm when she had given him the completed needlework and had kissed him. He didn’t know what else to do but leave in a hurry. After that, they had both found each other sporadically. Each time, he had gotten used to finding where her mouth was and parting ways before anyone saw. He never thought he would want this... this intimacy with another person. He was a boy, a bastard until recently, who couldn’t fathom why Theon would frequent brothels in Wintertown or why Robb would be tempted to join him. It had never been in his cup.

Jenny moved closer, gently placing her hand on his thigh. She softly asked if he didn’t want her there.

_ You should tell her to leave, _ a faint voice whispered on the outskirts of his mind.  _ Say no. _

Instead, he grabbed her hand and softly kissed the top.

_ You knew, _ the voice hissed at him.  _ You knew the moment she stepped into the tent where this would lead. You knew when you sent Rolland away. _

She was on his lap. How she got there was a blur. He had been tasting her lips and feeling the curves of her body when suddenly he could see her skirt ride up her legs as her thighs grasped at his. His tongue was in her mouth and he could feel her breasts ride up against his chest. The thin linen of his breeches was the only thing between him and…

He pulled back, breathing hard.

“I can’t!” he pleaded - with whom he did not know. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

She looked at him quizzically, hurt. Her lips looked so soft when she pouted, her eyes, so large and sad. How could he have just said no to her?

“I can’t father a bastard,” he finally confessed, his cheeks flushing as he looked at her. 

She kissed his lips, and left a trail of kisses across his cheek as she searched for his ear. 

“What’s wrong with bastards?” she whispered, sending a shiver across his skin.

“I grew up as one,” he explained, trying not to moan. “I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Jenny pulled back, biting her lip before sighing. Shaking her head, she explained, “You know, most smallfolk are bastard-born, then.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s rare in villages like mine, without a sept, that a child’s parents would be married before the Seven. Some people choose to wait for a Septon to visit, while others…” she trailed off. “My parents weren’t married, so I suppose that I’m a bastard on top of being an orphan,” she mused, releasing her hold on his shoulders and laying her hands on her thighs.

Things were done quite differently in the North. A Heart Tree and witnesses were all that were needed to marry two together. It had never occurred to him that the Southron religion would have led to something like this.

Something else occurred to him.

“Orphan? I thought…”

“She’s my aunt, truly. I call her my mother since that's what she’s been. The same with my cousins. They are all brothers to me,” she said smiling faintly.

“We’re very similar, then.”

“Well,” she smirked, “You grew up in a castle thinking the Lord of Winterfell was your father. While I was raised making the food the Lords and their families eat.”

“But, you’re not angry or remorseful?” he asked, more curious than accusatory.

Jenny shook her head. “I suppose I was when I first found out. I felt like my whole life had been a lie and I had woken up to a perfect graveyard to all that I knew. But,” she blushed, and looked away from him, “I figured that I might be better suited for a stage in Bravos than a spinster in Westeros. I had always been told I was too emotional.” She looked back. “ That's the worst…or the best…of life. It won't let you be miserable. It keeps on trying to make you comfortable…and succeeding…even when you're determined to be unhappy and romantic. ”

They remained silent looking at each other, Jenny remaining on his lap. Jae grasped her hands and looked down at them. They were long and thin and freckled, and her nails had ragged edges from chips and cracks. He squeezed them gently.

“I’m not sure my uncle won’t disown me, let alone call me his son anymore, for what I did.”

These were thoughts swirling around in his head since he had hatched Mundoros. He had never voiced them before, but it felt hearing these worries out loud would assuage his hopelessness. 

As he said it, however, it made frightful sense.

_ How could the Lord of Winterfell, friends - no, brothers, with the King on the Iron Throne, ever side with me? All I ever did was make his life more difficult. And I’m probably still making it difficult, now. He’ll probably never forgive me. _

Jenny pulled her hands away from his and cupped his face, turning it to face her. She planted a kiss on his forehead before saying, “My poor King is all doom and gloom. What can your humble servant do to make it better?”

Jae smiled up at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Your presence alone, my Lady, is enough to make me feel better.”

She blushed at his words. Looking rather coy, she slipped off his lap, brushed off her skirt, and bent down over his head. Jae looked up at her, not knowing what to expect. Her fingers and thumb brushed over his patch of white hair, pushing it back. She leaned down and placed a kiss on his forehead, lingering there for a moment. Jae closed his eyes, sighing internally. Finally, Jenny pulled away and began to gather her things around the fire.

“You can stay, for a while. If it suits you,” Jae nearly pleaded.

“No,” Jenny smiled as she focused on picking up her kettle. “I should be getting back to my bed. The other women will start talking nonsense about me.”

Jaehearys felt his shoulders deflate as he watched her walk towards the exit. Before she left Jenny turned to face him one last time.

“If your uncle's a good person, which I think he might be, you’d be a son to him no matter what you did. He’ll forgive you if he hasn’t already. Though, I’m not quite sure what there is to forgive.”

Jae tried to thank her, but found his throat had closed. Instead, he gave a small smile and nodded his head.

She left quietly as he looked down at his desk again, papers in disarray. Jae leaned forward and picked up a scroll from the far side of the table, dipped his quill in the ink and began to write.

_ Father... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woot! Woot! We are through with the lead-up chapters and now things are going to start messy for everyone :D Thank you to everyone who has given kudos and commented so far, it has really gotten me back in the mood for writing when I see someone has taken the time to send me their thoughts about the story. Even if it's just about a spelling/grammar mistake (I should really look into finding a second pair of eyes at some point). 
> 
> I'm super excited to have gotten to this part of the story, but also disappointed it took me so long. I thought I would have been at this part a few months ago, but this year really sucks.
> 
> Also, about that. Turns out I have been a lot busier than I thought I would be and there have been many... disappointments this year, especially recently, which have halted most things creative in my life. I am fine at the moment, and know I'm not alone. I also have work that involves a lot of writing atm, so I won't have a bunch of spare time until the second week of November to truly continue this story. :/ I'm hoping things will calm down by then, but you never know with this year.
> 
> Anyway, the next few chapters will be the battle at the Twins and the aftermath, and then we'll get to see everyone's favourite boi: Viserys :D I'm nervous and excited to write a battle since I've never really done it before. And the only battles I've ever studied in depth have been about the Great War, so... Dreams of cavalry charges, buildings crumbling, people dying everywhere, mine shafts... It should be alright :) Also, as a tidbit of knowledge, I lifted the pig thing from an actual, historical seige of Rochester where they set a bunch of pigs on fire to collapse a castle wall, and I'm planning on incorporating some more historical tactics in the next chapter. Nothing fancy, but I have to use my history degree for something :,)
> 
> Stay healthy! Stay safe!


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